#jon sinking into the comfort a mother without really thinking about it | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bluejayblueskies · 3 years

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Please say more abt how Martin fits the closed off trait I'm begging 👁👁

Okay, so I got a bit carried away with this and it got quite lengthy....

I've put a TLDR above the cut and the details, transcripts, and general discussion below the cut!

TLDR: Martin is at his core a closed-off character who keeps his vulnerable feelings hidden and close to his chest. He instead focuses on caring for others and considering their feelings above his own, particularly in the case of Jon, who he cares for (sometimes to the point of self-sacrifice) throughout the podcast. His arc with the Lonely in season four and his interactions with Jon in season five demonstrate this lack of emotional vulnerability, and it's really only during the moments he spends by himself that we get significant insight into Martin's emotional state and inner thoughts.

Martin, to me, is a character who is very used to hiding how he feels. He tends to care for others at the expense of himself, has low self-esteem, and has a predilection towards the Lonely, all of which go hand-in-hand with somebody who is very used to hiding their emotions--particularly the negative ones--because they either think they're not important or that they're inconvenient and inappropriate for the situation. On a textual level, that's probably due to growing up with a sick (and likely unsupportive) mother who he had to take care of, where there was 'no time' for his emotions to get in the way or for him to prioritize himself in any way, shape, or form.

Martin is self-destructive, dislikes moments of emotional vulnerability, and (I would argue) genuinely struggles when he doesn't have somebody else to prioritize over himself. (His mother at first, but as the series goes on, Jon settles comfortably into this role for him.) Additionally, the biggest way that we, the audience, know anything about Martin's emotional state is when he's alone and self-reflecting (such as in MAG 170 and 186 or when talking to the tapes) or when he's forced to talk about something vulnerable (such as when Jon confronted him about his CV).

We don't get much insight into Martin's character between seasons one and three (at least not as much as we get in four and five), but I find myself drawn to this bit in MAG 118, when Martin is talking to Elias:

MARTIN

So what? I don’t get to be angry? I don’t get to burn things? Just, just run around, making tea, while everyone else gets to actually have feelings?

I think two things are important to note here. The first is that Elias is surprised (or least intrigued) that Martin is acting in this way--specifically, acting on his emotions in such a dramatic way. (And given that Martin is doing this as a distraction, rather than actually acting out because of his own emotions, maybe he's right to be surprised.) The second is that this line very much implies that Martin doesn't talk about how he's feeling, not like 'everyone else' does. He doesn't talk about it, doesn't act on it--just 'runs around, making tea.' And when Melanie comes back in after Elias is done, Martin immediately focuses on the plan and whether it succeeded, ignoring Melanie when she asks if he's okay or not. He closes himself off, and as far as we know, doesn't talk about it at all after that.

And then Jon goes into his coma, and we reach season four.

Martin is incredibly closed-off during season four. He's self-isolating, self-sacrificial, and approaching a state of genuine emotional numbness by the time he's cast into the Lonely. There's a lot to unpack there, but I'm going to focus on a few main things, many of which can be drawn from this bit in MAG 158:

MARTIN

It’s not him! It’s not anybody. It’s just me. Always has been. I…

When I first came to you, I thought I had lost everything. Jon was dead, my mother was dead, the job I had put everything into trapped me into spreading evil and I… I really didn’t care what happened to me. I told myself I was trying to protect the others, but… honestly we didn’t even like each other. Maybe I just thought joining up with you would be a good way to get killed.

And then… Jon came back, and… and suddenly I had a reason I had to keep your attention on me. Make you feel in control so you didn’t take it out on him. And if that meant drifting further away, so what? I’d already grieved for him. And if it meant now saving him, it was worth it.

When you started talking about the Extinction, though… you had me actually, then, for a while. But then – (laughs sardonically) then, you tried to make me the hero. Tried to sell me on the idea that I was the only one who could stop it. And that I’ve never sat right with me. I mean, I mean, look – look at me, I’m not exactly a – a chosen one. But by then I was in too deep. So I played along. Waited to see what your end game was, and here we are.

Funny. Looks like I was right the first time. It’s probably still a good way to get killed?

This monologue is a big insight into Martin's thought process during this season, and I'm mostly going to focus on two parts: the self-sacrifice and the prioritization of Jon.

Self-sacrifice

There's quite a bit of discussion about Jon's self-sacrificial tendencies, but less so about Martin's, both in this season and in season five. In my opinion, Jon's self-sacrificial tendencies originate from (among other things) survivor's guilt from his traumatic childhood experience with Mr. Spider, his increasing belief that he's less than human, and the fact that he prioritizes the lives of others over his own. Martin's self-sacrificial tendencies, while very similar, come from the fact that he thinks he only has worth if he can help and care for someone else and the fact that he doesn't think he's important enough to live. (For example, he says in MAG 158 that he's 'not exactly a chosen one' and says in MAG 198 that he's 'not important enough to kill.')

It's a subtle difference between these two things, and I would argue that while Jon's tendencies are more rooted in the 'help' (ie, 'I want to help other people and I will sacrifice myself to do it'), Martin's tendencies are more rooted in the 'hurt' (ie, 'I will sacrifice myself and other people will be helped in the process'). There is, of course, overlap, and it's not a black-and-white distinction between the two, but ultimately, I think Martin is so used to prioritizing others' emotions and needs above his own that when he's left mostly alone as he is at the end of season three, with the only person left to hold onto being in a coma (possibly forever), he falls back into the same patterns of self-destruction and closed-offness, only without the 'help' to go along with the 'hurt' because there is nobody left to help (especially after his mother dies). Ultimately, he joins up with Peter because he thinks it 'would be a good way to get killed.'

Prioritization of Jon

But then Jon wakes up from his coma, and now Martin has justification for his self-sacrifice again, because he can protect Jon by continuing to work with Peter!

... Maybe.

Jon isn't harmed by Peter during season four, sure, but he does climb into the coffin and visits Ny-Ålesund and is tracked down by Julia and Trevor and struggles emotionally and morally with his own humanity and is hurt, in a way, by the distance Martin puts between them. And I hesitate to place blame for the apocalypse on anybody but Jonah, but if we're going to argue in-canon that Jon was responsible for the apocalypse (he wasn't, but that's not the point of this post), then Martin contributed to that blame and responsibility because it was his actions and decisions that ultimately drew Jon into the Lonely and resulted in him getting the 14th and final mark. (Again, I don't think Jon or Martin are at fault for the apocalypse, but if we were to blame Jon, we could blame Martin as well.) It was only after getting that mark that Jonah was able to use Jon to end the world, something that was hugely hurtful for Jon. So did Martin really protect Jon at all by staying away from him and continuing to work with Peter? Or was that just a convenient excuse to keep self-destructing?

Jon and Martin, in my opinion, had very similar arcs in season four. Martin was sinking further into the Lonely and Jon was sinking further into the Eye. We hear a lot more about Jon's emotional struggle with this given that he's the POV character, sure, but Jon also talks about this with other people. He talks about it to Helen (MAG 152):

JON

…

When does it stop?

HELEN

(impatient) What?

JON

The guilt. The misery. All the others I’ve met, they’ve been – cold, cruel. They’ve enjoyed what they do. When does the Eye (inhale) make me monstrous?

And to Daisy (MAG 136):

JON

My – (large sigh) My memories of the coma are not clear, but I know I made a choice; I made a choice to become… something else. Because I was afraid to die. But ever since then, I – I don’t know if I made the right decision; I’m stronger now, tougher, I can – (he cuts himself off) If I do die, now, or get sealed away somewhere forever? I don’t know if that’s a bad thing. And I don’t want to lose anyone else, so if I can maybe – stop that happening, and the only danger is to me, I – I’ll do it in a heartbeat; worst case scenario, the universe loses another monster.

But all we really get from Martin are the things he tells the tapes when he's alone and the monologue he gives in MAG 158. It makes sense that he wouldn't be as open, yes, given the nature of the Lonely, but I can't help but think of (MAG 154):

JON

The Lonely’s really got you, hasn’t it?

MARTIN

(no hesitation) You know, I think it always did.

Jon was always curious and hungry for knowledge; the Eye amplified it. Martin was always closed-off and isolated; the Lonely amplified that as well.

But then Jon pulls Martin out of the Lonely, they flee to the safehouse, and three weeks later, the apocalypse begins. Martin isn't as consumed by the Lonely as he was in season four, he's with Jon--the person he loves--for extended periods of time, and they're in an extremely stressful situation that's sure to be incredibly emotionally charged. There's a lot to be said about Jon's emotional vulnerability during season five and how Martin both pressures him for it and rejects it in different ways, but for the purposes of this post, I won't go too far into detail about the motivations behind how Jon is feeling and acting.

I will say, however, that in season five, Martin still continues to place a lot of focus on asking Jon how he's feeling, encouraging (or pressuring) him to share, and getting frustrated when Jon can't or doesn't (MAG 167):

MARTIN

Okay, so how exactly would you describe your current emotional state regarding all of this?

JON

I –

MARTIN

(overlapping) Go on, I’m all ears.

JON

I feel…

MARTIN

(go on) Mhm.

JON

(sigh) I feel… sad.

[Brief pause.] MARTIN

(flat) Sad.

JON

Very sad.

MARTIN

(*very* flat) Very sad.

[He sighs slightly as he says it. Their bags jangle.]

A few moments prior to this, Martin expresses displeasure that Jon is Knowing things about him, specifically pointing out his emotions (MAG 167):

MARTIN

It’s just – it’s weird knowing that you can know literally everything I think and feel. E-Especially since you’re not exactly the most open of people – emotionally, I mean.

I think Martin is making an effort to open up more to Jon. But I still think it's difficult for him to talk about how he feels so openly, and while he is completely in the right for not wanting Jon to Know things about him without his permission, I think it's interesting that the focus is on his feelings and that he brings up how Jon isn't emotionally open immediately after. It scares Martin to think that Jon could know, at any given moment, how he's feeling, and I think it's partially because he's not used to that level of vulnerability. He turns the focus on Jon, away from himself, and doesn't really make an effort to talk about how he's feeling about all of this, instead prioritizing Jon's feelings and mental state like he's grown comfortable with.

And when Martin bottles up his emotions--of which there are a lot, in such a stressful environment, they can explode out in hurtful ways:

MARTIN

(overlapping) I know! I know, okay, I just – (bracing exhale) Look, I j,just – don’t want to get burned, all right? It’s, it’s like my least favorite pain ever.

JON

Is that – a joke?

MARTIN

(a bit faster, a bit shaky) No, no, okay? I, I legitimately hate burns, alright? They’re, they’re awful, and they scar horribly, and they just – it – it just makes me sick; I, I hate it. Hate it!

I don't think Martin really thought about what he was saying when he told Jon, who has a large burn scar on his hand, that burn scars make him sick, and I don't think he meant it maliciously. But he'd spent the greater portion of the conversation talking around the fact that he didn't like burns and that was why he didn't want to go into the building, and so when it finally ended up coming out, it did so in an explosion of emotion rather than a conscious decision to share. Martin doesn't have a good handle on his emotions, and he doesn't have a good handle on sharing them.

(Is it too much for me to say that Martin was more emotionally vulnerable with himself in MAG 170 than he was with Jon when Jon finally found him?)

Throughout season five, Martin asks Jon questions, he expresses frustrations with Jon, he shows discomfort or fear at times, but for as much as Martin feels frustrated that Jon isn't talking about how he feels about their situation, Martin really isn't doing so either. The most he talks about his feelings is in MAG 170 and MAG 186, when he's by himself, and I remember MAG 186 in particular because before that, we really didn't know what Martin was thinking about for the majority of the season! And in this episode, we find out a lot of very important things about Martin's character. Like (MAG 186):

ALSO MARTIN

Look, I know what you know. Maybe I’m just a bit more… open about it.

Also-Martin acknowledges that Martin often doesn't say what he means and hides what he really feels, telling him that it's 'hard to be vulnerable,' and Martin is initially very resistant to the idea. And then, when Also-Martin suggests that Martin wants to stay so that he can be 'quietly sad,' we get (MAG 186):

MARTIN

We could talk to Jon about it.

ALSO MARTIN

We could. But we both know that loved ones make the worst therapists. They’re too wrapped up in trying to stop you hurting to actually help. But hey, we know all about that, am I right?

MARTIN

There’s nothing wrong with comforting people.

ALSO MARTIN

A cup of tea isn’t a resolution. At best it’s a… a plaster. At worst… a muzzle.

This is very interesting to me, because for all that Martin tries to help other people, he also believes that comfort doesn't always help and that you can't be your loved one's 'therapist.' I think this gives a lot of insight into why Martin doesn't share his emotions with the people he cares about, especially Jon; he doesn't want to put Jon in the position where he'll become his 'therapist,' and he doesn't necessarily think Jon can help. So instead, Martin just chooses not to be vulnerable at all, because he doesn't want to burden the people he cares about. But, when it's just him (MAG 186):

ALSO MARTIN

Don’t lie. You don’t need to. Not here. It’s just us.

He doesn't feel like he needs to pull his emotional punches. He can't accidentally hurt somebody or put them in an awkward position; it's just himself. But what's said to himself remains with himself, and (at least on tape), he doesn't discuss any of this with Jon. Not even the bit about, if it came down to it, Martin would have rather had Jon smite him than continue to rule over a domain. He goes right back to being closed-off around Jon, but now we, the audience, know what lies underneath, and how little of it reaches the surface.

In fact, the thing Martin's probably most vocal about is how Jon's feelings about himself bother him (MAG 199):

MARTIN

I guess that’s why it really bothers me, you know? I try, but I can’t actually imagine ever making a decision that I knew meant losing you.

And it… It hurts to know you can.

And I think he has a tendency to use anger and frustration to cover up hurt, shying away from the admission that something Jon's done has hurt him (an incredibly vulnerable thing) and instead relying on the less-vulnerable and more external anger to cover it. This is more speculation than true analysis, but I think that's a lot of what's happening in MAG 200, when he discovers that Jon has already assumed the position of the pupil and has, in Martin's eyes, broken his promise.

#tma #the magnus archives #martin blackwood #tma meta #jonathan sims #(because i do talk about jon a bit in this too)#i actually think martin isn't good with emotions at all #both his own and others'#i think he doesn't quite know what to do with them so he puts on a mask and defaults to things he knows will work #*thinks about the low empathy autistic martin high empathy autistic jon post with love in my heart*

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omg-im-such-a-masochist · 3 years

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⛽️ 🔥 FIRE AND GASOLINE 🔥⛽️ (PART 1?)

Prompt: Y/N’s life has changed drastically, precisely 10 years ago and all because of an adorable lunatic and two little maniacs. But what will happen when a divergency of thoughts leads Y/N and her lunatic to say some pretty harsh words, that they know they will regret it later?

Word count: Maybe too long?

Pairing: Jon Moxley (or even Dean Ambrose if that’s your liking) x Reader

Warnings: For now, just some cursing and angst

Notes: His time has finally arrived and I couldn’t be more nervous about it! This goes out to my sincerely unhealthy love for Jon Moxley and my mixed feelings about having kids (sounds like a good match right?). Y’all know the drill loves,sorry for misspellings,english isn’t my first language (bla bla bla),check out my other stories if you’d like to(it would make your girl here very happy 😊) and if you’re comfortable with it,please let me know what you think? Some feedback is always welcomed and appreciated ❤️You can check out my other stories typing ‘masochist writes’ on the search bar on my page and my newest story as a fixed post.Okay,now let’s get to the fun part,shall we? Hope you’ll enjoy 😉

A light smile formed on my lips as I watched through the kitchen sink window Atticus and Rosie play in the backyard as I did the dishes. I never thought that my life could change for the better with a 6 and 4 years old..and to think that I never thought of myself as the maternal type.

The plate I was rinsing off almost broke on the sink as my body jumped from fright, when a pair of hands embraced my hips

“Oh God, you almost gave me a heart attack! Are you crazy?”

“Not really, just a little lunatic..” He laughed “I’m sorry it wasn’t my intention to frighten you, but once I saw that ass kitten I lost my fucking mind! Just like I did 10 years ago...” His hands roamed on my hips until they reached my ass that he lightly slapped. “Did you miss me, cherry?” His lips glued on the nape of my neck

‘Cherry’ that lame ass nickname he gave me 10 years ago...and all because my cheeks go incredibly red when I blush or whenever the weather gets cold making a huge contrast against my pale skin.

“Of course I missed you! This house gets too boring without you in it” I lightly chuckled

“Is that the only reason why you missed me?” He grinds his bulge on my ass, as an insinuation to what he actually meant by that question

“Jon, the kids are outside...”

“I’m not doing anything, I’m just asking an innocent question kitten” He nibs my neck

I turn around to face him, placing my arms around his neck leaning in for a kiss. It started innocently, but Jon Moxley wouldn’t be Jon Moxley if things were kept innocent.

His hands reached the hem of my tank top, sliding in to meet my bare skin, he roams up til he finally founds what he was looking for.

“Fuck baby, I missed these” He whispers as he softly but firmly squeezes my breasts. As much as I would like to have some fun time with my husband it’s not ‘adult time’ yet, which meant the kids were still up. So no ‘dirty deeds’ for us just yet.

I took the little bit of sanity I still had and broke the kiss

“Jon, that’ll have to wait babe”

He sighs “C’mon Y/N is just a quickie kitten, the kids won’t even notice you’re not here..just a few pumps in, I swear!”

“The last time you wanted to give it just ‘a few pumps in’ I was birthing Rosie 9 months later” I reminded him

“So? We love each other, we’re an adult couple with a beautiful family and a lot of love to give” He nibs my bottom lip “What’s wrong with having another little maniac? I wouldn’t mind! We make some pretty fucking good looking kids, we should start practicing another one now” He vaguely said

Oh God not this again... This has been a pretty heated topic between Jon and I, he was always crazy about kids but I wasn’t very fondly of them. When I found out I was pregnant with Atticus I lost my mind! I wasn’t sure about the whole ‘mommy’ commitment for life thing, I didn’t even knew if I had one single bone of motherhood in me. That soon changed though when I first held Atticus on my arms, at that moment I knew my heart was sold to some stinky bum that would call me ‘mom’ for the rest of my life. Rosie was a surprise too, we haven’t even talked about the possibility of having another kid and I was already pregnant with her.

Right after that the baby factory was officially closed to me but not for Jon, he wanted at least two more kids and I didn’t, he had a bit of a trouble understanding that back then I didn’t even wanted my first one! I love my kids, I would die for them in a blink but that doesn’t mean that I eagerly look forward being pregnant every goddamn year.

Jon’s job doesn’t help either, with him constantly being on the road I do most of the raising when it comes to the kids. Of course he still is an amazing father in the short amount of time he is home but still, I’m the one who has to do the working, cooking, cleaning, give baths, put to bed, take to swimming classes, brazilian jiu-jitsu classes, dentist appointments, running to the emergency at 3am because one of them is suddenly sick while the other one sleeps at the emergency’s waiting room chair, wiping off their tears whenever daddy has to leave again..

“Jon, not this topic again, please” I beg

“What is wrong with me wanting to discuss having another baby with the woman that I love?”

“It’s not that simple Jon, I wish it was but is not” I said slightly angry

“Yes it is that simple Y/N! You’re the one who’s always trying to complicate things” He let go of my hips

Great! Now he’s angry too. That’s just what I needed!

“Jon look, I don’t want us to fight ok? You just got home and we all miss each other so why don’t we drop it for now huh?”

I tried to wave the white flag, but I should’ve known it wouldn’t work with Jon ‘The Stubborn’ Moxley

“Of course you want to drop it, it’s not of your interest is it? No it isn’t! You always do this! Whenever a subject doesn’t matter to you, you don’t wanna talk about it, you’re always so selfish! Always thinking about yourself, never once caring about me or what I want! Selfish as fuck!” He raised his voice

When people say that words can hurt more than actions they were right. If he had punched me in the face it wouldn’t hurt as much as the harshness of his words. To say that I am selfish? After everything I left behind just to be with him? That hurt! And instead of doing the adult thing and keep my mouth shut before I said something I knew I would regret it, I did the Y/N thing where I run my mouth with harsher words than he’s previous ones just so I could hurt him as much as he hurt me

“I’m selfish? Me? Oh you better place the mirror in front of your own face to find the definition for that word Jonathan! You are the one who gets to make your ‘wrestler life’ on the road, living like a single man with not even one worry on your mind while I get behind with two kids and all the shit that comes with the package! It’s easy for you to say it with your 15 minutes FaceTime parenting that you do! In the mean time I have to be the bad guy who has to always say no because glorious dad is on the road chasing his dream for when he gets home he will do all of his kids luxuries so he can try to compensate his absence with Barbie dolls and hot wheels cars! So yeah I’m the selfish one Jonathan, good thing you notice that” I regretted those words as soon as they fell from my lips.

Jon’s eyes briefly showed the hurt caused by them but he soon replaced that with rage and pride before lifting his head up to say

“And is thanks to glorious dad that you have this comfortable house, a nice car and a shit ton of food on your table sweetheart. Let’s be honest here Y/N, how are you supposed to support yourself and the kids with your shitty excuse for a salary? I wipe my ass with the pitiful money that you make” He huffed

I’ve never felt so humiliated in my life. Yes my paycheck was mere cents compared to his, but I worked hard for my money, I was proud to have my own money, to share the bills with him and was proud for not taking the easy path of relying on a rich man to support myself (like my dear old mother proudly did). So the fact that he took something that was so prideful to me and used to humiliate me, made me for once rethink all of our 10 years together and if it was worth it at all.

Tears threaten to fall from my eyes and Jon seemed to have realized what he just said as for he reached his hand to cup my cheek

“Kitten, I-“

“Don’t! Don’t touch me, I don’t want you anywhere near me” I said in between sobs

“Y/N please I-“

“Mommy, why are you crying?” I saw Rosie’s smile die on her lips once she saw me crying.

I heard Atticus’ fast footsteps coming by the french doors to stop by Rosie

“Yay, daddy’s home- Mommy are you ok? Why are you crying? Did you get hurt?” His small but smart baby blue eyes roamed my face and my body for any signs of physical hurt

“Yes stinker, mommy got hurt” I said trying to hold back my sobs

“Where? I can’t see anything” Those clever blue orbs that were a faithful copy of Jon’s roamed through me once more trying to find the injury

“Why don’t you guys come here and tell daddy how much you’ve missed him while mommy goes upstairs to clean up the scratch?”

They just nodded and ran towards Jon, who took them both in his arms

“Y/N” He started but I gave him a look that made him go silent.

I reached the safety of my bedroom, feeling the urgent need to run away. Run away from him, from this house, from this country. Taking with me only the clothes on my body and my two little beasties...the immature part of me yelled ‘do it, do it’ but the grownup in me knows I can’t do this. It’s not fair to the kids, they barely get to see their father whom they love and miss so much. It’s not fair to Jon either, he loves those kids more than he’s own life.

But right now I needed my safe place (or better, person), I needed to breath so I called her and when I received the ok on spending 3 days at her house I packed a small little bag with enough close for just those days, as I was zipping up the bag a faint knock came from the bedroom door soon after being followed by it opening.

“Kitten, can we talk- What are you doing?” He asked in urgency as he bursts into the bedroom approaching me.

“I’m gonna go to Nancy’s” I vaguely said looking at anywhere but him

“Nance? Your sister?”

“She’s the only Nancy I know, so yeah..”

“But why? I just got home, I wanna be together Y/N”

“It’s just for 3 days Jon..you’ll be with the kids, they need you and they miss you” My voice is a faint whisper

“But I need and miss you too! I want you here! How am I supposed to enjoy my family if it’s not complete? I’m sure we can figure it out whatever it is that happened earlier” He grabbed my shoulders turning me to face him and cupped my cheeks, tilting my head up to look me in the eyes.

“Y/N, kitten, I know that I’ve said some pretty harsh things to you earlier. I’ve been stressed out. It’s all my fault, I’m so sorry cherry. Please forgive me baby” He pressed his forehead with mine

That was typical Jon, always pulling the guilt towards himself, he has a hard time understanding that he was not always the only cause of a disagreement.

“Jon, we both said some stupid things ok? This is not all on you, love” I released myself from him, if he continued this close I wouldn’t resist, and right now I need to think.

“Yes it is Y/N. Me and my stupid fucking mouth, not you. You’re perfect kitten”

I scoffed “Trust me, I am not”

“Yes you are! Look at who I am now because of you, I stopped doing drugs, I’m not a drinking mess anymore, I eagerly look forward coming come because I know that the three pieces of my heart are waiting for me, look at what I’ve achieved, what you gave me, how you gave up everything and everybody to be with me”

Oh yeah,that.. my ‘high society family’ was not happy at all when they met Jon, they said that we were a very dangerous combination of fire and gasoline, that we would never be happy. I had two options they said, either them or him. I hated my family and loved Jon so it was a simple math. I left my house and all of the luxury behind to live with him in his ridiculously small one bedroom old apartment. The only person that I still talked to was Nancy my older and just as rebel sister, who gave everybody the middle finger and left the not so humble abode of my family never speaking with them again. So it made sense that the two rebellious black sheeps would become their own family, mine was Nancy and I was hers.

“Jon I need some time to think, we need it ok? Please, we both need to digest what we’ve said to each other. It wasn’t just a simple ‘fuck off’ we’ve said some pretty bad stuff so let’s just process this ok?” I beg

“Are you gonna leave me forever? Please don’t tell me you’ll want divorce because of this...I won’t handle it kitten” His voice was strangled by tears

“Jon-” I was thankfully interrupted by Rosie’s and Atticus’ screams of joy on the hallway as they ran towards our bedroom

“Mommy, daddy the movie is about to start c’mon” Atticus says as he jumps from excitement. They have been wanting to watch Moana for a while now, but only when daddy got home so he could watch it too.

“We’re going buddy” Jon fastly said

“Actually” I begin “Only daddy will watch the movie with you” It crushed my heart to see the disappointment on their faces

“Why?” Rosie asks

“Because auntie Nancy called and mommy’s gonna need to go and help her”

“Is auntie Nana in trouble?” Now it was Atticus turn to ask

“No stinker, she just need momma’s help with something, it’s nothing bad I promise”

“Can you go to Nancy’s after the movie?” Jon hopefully asks, he knows that the longer I stay the less likely it will be for me to leave.

The kids gasped at their daddy’s amazingly smart idea.

“Please mommy, please!” The kids started to beg as they kneeled down to make their begging really serious.

Jon kneeled down too, by my side. I looked at him confused and he just said

“Yeah mommy, please stay” He placed his hands on my hips “Please kitten, don’t leave me” He whispered

And now I have 3 pairs of incredibly beautiful and pleading baby blue eyes staring at me waiting for my answer.

What am I supposed to do?...

To be continued (?)

What do you think? Should this story continue? Would you like to see what will Y/N do? What would you do? Please let me know your thoughts, they are so very important to me and help me with my writing 💕🥰

#jon moxley #jon moxley one shot #jon moxley fanfiction #jon moxley x reader #aew one shot #aew fanfiction #dean ambrose #dean ambrose one shot #dean ambrose fanfiction #dean ambrose x reader #dean ambrose x oc #wwe imagine #wwe one shot #wwe fanfiction #jon moxley imagine #dean ambrose imagine #masochist writes

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beholdme · 3 years

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All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 9

Chapters: 9/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

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

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

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

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

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

On a Tuesday in the middle of November, not long after Gerry's 28th birthday, the three of them eat dinner at Gerry's flat, as they often do these days. Jon cooks for them and after, Martin and Gerry wash the dishes and debate the book they both just finished reading.

Jon has been twitchy all evening, so they leave him to read his own book in peace.

He wanders in at one point, leaning against the counter. "Gerry, do you know what day it is?"

Gerry looks over at him in such a way as to indicate that he really doesn't.

"Our six-month anniversary?" He tries.

"No," Martin pipes up, "That's not for weeks yet."

Jon and Gerry both look at him askance. "What? Your boyfriend starts dating another man, you remember the date. I can't believe you two don't know." Martin says as if that about covers it.

"Nevermind that." Jon snaps, and even with his previous moodiness, the others are taken aback at his blunt words and even harsher tone.

"Something wrong, Jon?" Gerry asks quietly, leaning against the opposite counter to Jon and crossing his arms. His tone suggests what he actually wanted to say was 'Do we have a problem here, bitch?' but he manages to reign the actual words in.

"I want to know why you left without saying goodbye." Jon's words are filled with a multitude of frustrations, none of which are actually conveyed in his limited words.

"Yesterday?" Gerry asks, incredulous. "You were asleep!"

"No! Not yesterday." Jon snaps back. "When we were younger. It's been ten years today since you disappeared off the face of the planet."

"Oh," Gerry responds quietly, his defensive posture dropping. He leans his hands back on the table behind him, bringing his shoulders up around his ears. It’s a rare display of confident, edgy Gerry trying to shrink himself.

"I thought we were, you know. Together. Then one day you were just gone! As if you had never existed. Your mother wouldn't tell me anything at all, just sat there smirking at me, said that you were gone and she didn't know when you were coming back, or if you were ever coming back. Which you never did, actually." Jon has been pacing, his voice rising with each new word until the final words are shouted accusatorily into the space between them.

Gerry knew Jon had wanted to talk about this since the day he walked in the library and back into his life. He had waited, been patient, and Gerry had put it off in the hopes that he would never have to choke the words out. Now, that patience was obviously over, and he knew he owed Jon this explanation.

"We were together Jon. I loved you."

"So why? What did I do so wrong, that I got to wake up one day and find you gone ?" Jon's voice has become desperate, and they can all hear the tears that he is trying to hold back.

"Don't say that. You didn't do anything wrong. We weren't perfect, but we were always so good together. I... I had to get out of there. And I couldn't leave any clues behind, so I couldn't tell you anything, because it wouldn't have been safe for either of us." Gerry reaches towards Jon to soothe him, but he flinches away and Gerry doesn't pursue him.

"I don't understand." The tears have come, and Gerry desperately tries to hold back his own when he sees them.

Martin had up until that point been standing resolutely in the corner, trying not to interfere in their pre-Martin argument. At the advent of tears, Martin moves to stand at Jon's back, gripping his shoulder for comfort. Gerry looks bereft and Martin holds out a hand to get him to come closer as well. They huddle all together, both Jon and Gerry taking comfort in Martin's steadiness.

Gerry leans into Jon, sliding his hand around his neck and pressing their foreheads together. "I'm so sorry, love. I've never forgiven myself for just disappearing on you. I thought about you every day."

"I love you," Jon whispers as Martin rocks them both gently. "But I need to know."

"I love you too." Gerry shuts his eyes and wishes more than ever to erase his shitty legacy of pain and blood.

Martin drags them to bed and offers to leave them alone to their talk.

"Please stay," Gerry says, grasping his hand. "You both need to know, and I don't want to have to talk through this twice."

So they all pile into Gerry's bed together, sitting in a vague circle like teenagers at a slumber party.

As Gerry starts to talk, Martin drags him over toward him and begins braiding his dark blue hair. It's both an offer of physical comfort and affection (easily Gerry's main love language) and a simple way of letting him off the hook for eye contact.

With Jon staring at him quite intently, Martin doesn't think he needs any further pressure.

"Jon, you-" He starts and then halts abruptly. Jon reaches over and grasps his hand, attempting to further ground him. "You remember my mother. I know you saw how, how just off she was. Manipulative and controlling. By turns demanding and completely uninterested in me. One day I would be free to run wild for weeks at a time, the next she would have a meltdown if I wasn't exactly where she wanted me, every second of the day and night." Gerry blows a breath out, shuddering at the memory of a particularly bad incident with a vase that had left him needing several stitches over his left eye.

"Well, she wasn't always like that. I remember her being a pretty good mom when I was young, if distant. She was always far more interested in being a wife than a mother, and she loved the way my father adored her.

“When I was 7, my father was blinded in an accident at work. I remember the day the phone call came. She spoke very calmly to the hospital, before hanging up the phone and shattering every picture frame in the house." Martin is finished with Gerry's hair and simply leans into him, offering silent comfort. "He coped okay with his new disability actually, and I liked helping him learn the world again with no sight. My mother never recovered from her initial breakdown though. She was angry and petulant that she needed to help and support him for the first time in their entire relationship and became more and more unhinged over the course of a year.

"One day I came home from school to find a puddle of blood soaked into the floor of the living room. She said there had been an accident and my father wasn't coming back. She hit me for the first time when I cried. She told me that I was a man now, and tears were for useless girls and disgusting… Well, you get the picture."

Gerry pauses and glances between them. A few tears have started to run down his face, but he doesn't seem to even notice them.

"We moved a few days later, and that was all I ever knew about my father's death until I was eighteen, almost ten years later. I'll spare you the horrid details, but as I'm sure you've already guessed, she murdered him. She explained very, very graphically what she had done with the body, and that she would never be caught, no one would ever think to blame her, even if anyone could ever prove that he was dead at all."

The words hang heavy in the air between the three of them. Gerry feels the comfort of their touches, but can hardly stand the affection anymore. He gets up off the bed and goes to look out the bedroom window, arms crossed and posture hard.

"Then she looked me right in the eye. And she told me that was exactly what would happen to Jon if she ever caught me with him again."

Dead, cold silence fills the room.

Gerry turns back around to find them both watching him. "So, I packed whatever I could fit into my duffle bag, and I got the hell out of dodge. I ran. I ran because I couldn't close my eyes at night with seeing your face white and cold and covered in blood and," he breaks off and takes a shuddering breath, covering his eyes and sinking to his knees. "And I couldn't stand that she would hurt you because of me. That all your light and potential would be ripped away from you in blood and pain and nothing I felt for you could make even the risk of that worthwhile."

He lifts his head to look up at them, where they’ve moved to the side of the bed towards him. “And do you want to know what the worst part is, actually? I can’t get over the idea that even though I haven’t seen Mary Keay in 10 years, the ghost of her demons lives inside of me. That I'm really just… Her. That one day my mind will snap and I'll be a danger to you both and I'll be the one hurting you, just like she hurt him. And then I'll just be the same monster who has always haunted my dreams."

Martin and Jon exchange a heavy look. They can scarcely believe that Gerry had endured so much and yet is still… Gerry. Happy, flirtatious, loving Gerry. Gerry, who fills their lives with colour and spontaneity, always showing up when they least expected him, pushing himself into their gravity and asking for space in their lives.

Despite the rather violent nature of Gerry's confession, it doesn't change anything for either of them. Things are not yet settled between them, but they curl around Gerry on the floor and they cry together over shattered innocence and sacrificed futures, and Jon promises himself that he will never let Mary Keay come between him and Gerry ever again.

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

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gerrydelano · 4 years

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yeah, no. i really can’t get comfortable with the idea of legitimately acting like gertrude was actually some sincere surrogate mother figure to gerry in any way considering she wound up doing things in all but exact same vein that mary keay did: treating his suffering like a tool and neglecting to get him help in any way when she watched him start to deteriorate. wringing him for use like halved fruit over a glass that isn’t quite full and never will be, now, because well, i guess that’s all that was left in him. shame.

jon comments in MAG 107 as he’s relaying into the tape recorder that the two of them masqueraded around as mother and son as a cover and he has to recoil a bit in discomfort because he gets the idea that gertrude took a perverse joy from the pretense. like... it’s uncomfortable. it’s bad. it’s not actually this cute, funny thing? it’s not found family, it’s not the type of thing that we ought to romanticize as being such. as an outsider it’s nice to imagine gerry having a surrogate mother figure in his life that treated him better, i guess, but gertrude is not that person.

it may have felt like it, sometimes. in the quiet moments in hotel rooms while traveling when she asks if he’s packed everything and reminds him not to forget his toothbrush, or mindlessly pats his arm as they pass each other on the way to their respective sides of the car, but he wasn’t in the practice of letting a sore heart fool him out of remembering that he’s here because he has a function. they both regarded each other like terse co-workers more anything. they were not family. he knew.

he said himself that he didn’t trust her, she was always the work. she reminded him of his own mother and for good reason. because while she chose a different end goal to pursue, her ruthlessness was the very same and her moral compass pointed pin straight to a willingness to categorize other people as expendable or otherwise. her ends justified her neat and bloody means. he saw it in her and he knew but consider — it was all he knew. it was familiar. in a sick way, comfortable.

when you grow up in a habitat designed to nurture C-PTSD, it becomes more uncomfortable to seek healing and stray from the familiarity of the pain that conditioned you. gerard is not lacking in self awareness. he knew what he was neck deep in and he told himself that perhaps he’d be alright sinking down to his nose, disappearing in it, because he’d gotten in the water with the knowledge that no one takes his pain seriously anyway. what could he have expected? a second chance at growing up loved?

as if. they were not family. he knew.

still doesn’t exactly make the fundamentals of the situation of his cancer any less of a carpet being ripped out from underneath him to reveal some black hole carved out of the floor. she may have given him tea and turned the lights down when he had one of his splitting headaches but she never insisted against his predisposition to deny himself medical help. just the stress of fighting the forces of evil, most likely. she gets headaches, too, it comes with the job.

but not really. depending on the type of tumor, who even knows what could have been going on in those last few months. it could have been very clear even without the beholding.

and even if it wasn’t actually cancer and was instead some supernatural consequence for using little beholding powers without using them to scare people and feed it/himself, she’d still? have an idea about that? you would fucking think? like, the point here isn’t to drive in the gruesome details of tumor symptoms, it’s the fact that whatever was happening to him, gertrude did nothing to intervene and in fact exacerbated it with knowing intent.

gertrude is an incredibly interesting character and i actually enjoy her quite a lot from a writing perspective but really, the last thing this poor man needed was another cold old woman manipulating the course of his life and then literally binding him to the book that ruined it to start with. the one thing that would hurt him most, she did, after he had no life left in him to fight it. she took advantage of his circumstance so deeply that even if he expected that something was coming, that could not have felt like anything but the betrayal he’d been talking himself out of calling it whenever it did.

he must have felt handed off like a racing baton, going from the nail-raking clutches of one insidious woman to the careful, practiced grip of another one.

gertrude knew mary well. she knew what she had done and what she enjoyed doing and how she got her way. she watched gerard and learned him and riddled out what he got from his mother and mimicked her for a reason.

eric asked her to check on gerry when they spoke, and she neglected to do so in the way he had meant for her to. she only checked in to watch, to mark the decline of his ability to handle being haunted by the somewhat-ghost of his half-immortal mother for five solid years, and only acted when he was conveniently desperate enough to aid her in her own endeavors since he would feel indebted to her. she waited for the proper moment. she had to have checked in, and did nothing. she was actively complicit in his abuse, and essentially just continued it under a different pretense.

she may not have had the same exact plans for gerard that mary did, but that doesn’t change her methodology. it doesn’t change the fact that she exploited weaknesses that they both knew he had, and knew he didn’t have enough in him to fight. she used his illness as a tool, and said nothing until he couldn’t explain away his own seizures as being something he could put up with because what choice does he have?

in a way gerry sort of pulled an eric and accepted it from gertrude, i think. he wound up unwittingly mimicking that uncomfortable complacency under the pretense of thinking that since he knows he was being used, manipulated, and would eventually catch some sort of knife in the back for it, he can’t be all that mad about it. in the case of gertrude, it turned out to be a particularly vile case of bystander effect.

she spent most of her time considering the future through an objective lens. the greater war they’re waging. rationally decided that the needs of the many outweigh the pre-determinedly doomed soul of the one. she didn’t doom the boy herself, no, but she certainly took a disturbingly literal leaf out of mary keay’s book and finished the job. whether it was necessary or not hardly matters. enough of the ends; the means matter. nothing justifies that.

even if she didn’t say "i’m going to let you suffer the untreated effects of cancer until you can’t assist me anymore,” she was somehow still explicitly clear. at least it wasn’t a real betrayal because he saw it coming — saw something coming — or should have, or maybe considered it and doesn’t think he should be surprised, even though it hurts like hell and the person he spent his last moments around who had worn that pinched up little smirk when someone assumed he was her son didn’t just let him rest when he was finished. she had to know how badly he needed to be finished.

he knew exactly what was going on in terms of whether she actually cared about him as a person, and it was still somehow preferable to mary’s bullshit because he was an adult by this point, not a helpless child. he knew from the start that they were far from equals, too, and he didn’t try to get on her level in a personal way but he may have at least somewhat felt like he had at least the illusion of agency. until the very end, of course.

that was the part he didn’t expect. that’s the part that really drives home that gerard keay has only ever had one sort of domineering woman in his life, and there was an infinite array of things that they openly chose over him. the only way that gertrude was a “mother figure” to him was in the sense that she almost perfectly paralleled the one he already had, and she did it on purpose.

telling himself that he expected it the way one expects an oncoming train from their place in the middle of the tracks doesn’t make the impact any softer when it hits. you still get caught under the wheels. the weight of it is still impossible, the speed of full realization does nothing to pack bone dust back into shapes that can carry you.

like father like son, i suppose.

#gertrude robinson #gerard keay #gertrude #gerry #the magnus archives #tma #r.txt #meta #cancer tw #abuse tw #death tw #top #ronologues

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suttttton · 3 years

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There’s Nothing More To It (I Just Get Through It)

Written for Febuwhump, Day 6: Insomnia

***

I. Martin

The Institute makes a lot of noises, at night.

That makes sense. It’s an old building. Perfectly normal to hear creaking in the walls, banging in the vents, humming in the pipes. And the noises aren’t particularly loud. Martin’s flat is a block away from a train station, so the Institute is practically silent in comparison.

None of the noises even sound particularly like knocking.

There’s no reason he should be sat upright, his back pressed into the corner of document storage, watching the door as if any moment it’s going to swing open and unleash a flood of worms on him.

The door is locked, he reminds himself. He’s sealed in. No monster, wormy or otherwise, can get him in here. It’s safe.

But—

If he goes to sleep, he might wake up to her knocking.

***

Martin isn’t a fan of coffee. Too bitter. When he pours himself a mug the next morning, he tries to drown the taste in milk. He won’t be able to get through the morning without at least a little caffeine.

He’d managed to snatch a short nap at his desk earlier while Tim and Sasha were coming in. It was… kind of soothing, hearing them move about. They’d kept their voices low for him, which he’d appreciated.

“Yikes, coffee?” Tim says, coming into the break room behind him. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“I’m not,” Martin says, taking a sip and grimacing. Even tempered with the milk, it’s just—bad.

“Didn’t sleep well?”

Martin shakes his head.

“Nightmares? Or is the cot really that uncomfortable?”

Martin shrugs. He doesn’t want to worry Tim. “It’s just a little weird, sleeping here. I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”

***

He’s so exhausted by the end of the day that he falls asleep as soon as he falls into bed.

And—

There are worms flooding into his flat. He should have sealed everything up, he thought he already had, but he didn’t, and now the worms are closing in. His mother is—somewhere, oh god, are the worms going to get her too? He smashes them as they get too close, and their inky black blood squishes against his skin. But there are so many, and now they’re crawling, squirming, burrowing into his flesh, he’s becoming a hive, a thing like Jane Prentiss, and—

He wakes up, and before he’s even aware that he’s awake, he’s out of bed, scratching at his skin, trying to rid himself of the worms. He can feel them, crawling over his skin, but he can’t—

He blinks, his breathing starting to slow. It was a dream. Just a dream. There are no worms.

He flicks on the light just in case, inspects himself all over. Pulls the blankets off the cot, and shakes them out. There are no worms.

He sits down on the cot, his heart still hammering in his chest, still thinking about the worms. The burrowing—

Something makes a tap tap tap noise, and Martin freezes. It goes on for a long time, and Martin knows it’s her, knows that it’s the worms, knows that they are coming for him.

Then the noise stops. Just another one of those Institute noises. Air in the pipes, or something.

There are tears in Martin’s eyes now. He wishes he weren’t alone. It’s so much easier to be afraid, when you’re alone.

***

He starts buying energy drinks. He’s never been an energy drink person before. When he was a teenager, he’d read an article in one of his mother’s magazines about their adverse health affects, which had seemed serious enough to keep him from using them, even during those exhausting job-hunting years right after he dropped out.

Now that he lives in a world where flesh-hive worm monsters exist, he’s somewhat less concerned about taurine overdoses.

He doesn’t drink them at night. He doesn’t need them—between the noises and the nightmares and his traitorous imagination, he’s lucky if he gets half an hour of sleep anyway. But he can hardly sleep through work, so he drinks one in the morning, and two more throughout the day. They do their job. He doesn’t pass out at his desk.

He’s exhausted, of course. Even at the height of the energy-drink high, he only has a wobbly, sticky kind of energy. A thin veneer to hide how close he is to absolute collapse.

Three days in, Jon snaps at him about some unimportant filing discrepancy. It isn’t Martin’s fault, and Jon immediately apologizes, but Martin almost has a breakdown on the spot. He ends up spending fifteen minutes crying in the bathroom, feeling absolutely pathetic. He knows it’s the sleep deprivation, but Christ.

Four days in, he starts shaking, and he knows, he knows that’s a bad sign. He needs to get some real sleep. And he tries, he really does. During lunch, he takes a nap on the cot, hoping that it’ll give him something, at least. All it gives him is a migraine.

He tries to take tea to Jon, but he’s trembling so badly that he spills a bit over Jon’s desk, soaking a few documents. “Nothing important, thank goodness,” Jon says, but Martin still feels awful.

And now Jon is looking at him. Fantastic.

“Are you… alright, Martin?” Jon asks, sounding genuinely concerned, because apparently concern is something Jon just does now.

“I’m fine,” Martin sighs.

“Is—Is staying here alright? I know it isn’t the most comfortable but is it—”

“It’s fine, Jon,” Martin says, even managing a smile. “Thanks for letting me.” He doesn’t want to imagine how much worse this would be if he had to go back to his flat every night.

“Well,” Jon says, “You’re welcome, I suppose. But—never mind.” He shakes his head, turning back to his work. It’s a clear dismissal, and Martin goes. When he gets back to his desk, he rests his pounding head against the cool table. He needs to figure something out. This is not sustainable.

***

That night, after laying sleeplessly in bed for an hour, headache gradually getting worse, Martin gets up and goes to make himself tea. Usually, he’s too spooked by the darkness of the Archives to bother, but Jon is working late today, and there’s a reassuring crack of light under his door.

Martin gets his tea, starts to head back to document storage, and—stops. From the door to the break room, he can see Jon’s office. He looks over his shoulder, at the ratty couch pushed against the far wall.

He sets the tea down, and returns to document storage, grabbing the blanket and a pillow from the cot. Then he curls up on the couch, his head pillowed on the armrest, knees curled. It isn’t comfortable, and he will be aching tomorrow, but he can see the little crack of light from Jon’s office. He knows he isn’t alone. He—.

He’s asleep before he can even finish the thought.

***

II. Jon

When Martin starts to decline after he starts sleeping in document storage, Jon notices. He notices the first day, when Martin can barely keep his eyes open. He notices the energy drinks that start appearing in the break room fridge. He notices the way Martin’s reaction time slows, the way he loses track in conversations more quickly, the way his face drops at the first sign of strife.

Jon doesn’t know what to do about it. Martin clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, isn’t comfortable coming to Jon for help. Martin is an adult. If he wants to deal with this by downing energy drinks until he inevitably crashes, it’s hardly Jon’s place to stand in his way.

He just…

It’ll kind of be his fault, when Martin crashes. Won’t it?

He stays late at the Institute. He’s been trying to avoid that, trying to give Martin his privacy, but… the Archives really are a mess. Jon can’t avoid staying a few hours after everyone else leaves.

Around ten-thirty, he gets ready to head out. Gathers up a few files to take home with him, puts his jacket on, and then heads to the break room to put his mug in the sink.

He clicks on the light, and startles so badly he nearly drops his mug.

Martin is asleep on the couch.

Why is Martin asleep on the couch?

Sure, the cot isn’t exactly comfortable, but it is leagues better than that ancient, sagging thing. Martin hardly even fits on it!

Jon stares at him for a long moment. He’s brought a pillow out here, and is wrapped up in Jon’s blanket, snoring softly. He looks… peaceful, even if the position he’s curled up in looks distinctly uncomfortable.

He didn’t even stir when Jon so rudely flicked the light on, although… it hardly would have been Jon’s fault, if he had. Martin would’ve known that Jon was still here when he decided to set up camp here. He would have had to see the light under Jon’s door.

Oh.

Jon suddenly understands, and it’s so obvious that he wants to kick himself for not figuring it out sooner, days ago.

Of course Martin would feel scared, being all by himself down here. He’d been alone for two weeks! Of course Martin would want the assurance of other people around!

Jon sets up his laptop on the break room table, and then after some consideration goes to get his desktop lamp from his office. He flicks off the overhead light and keeps working. Martin doesn’t stir.

Around three, Jon packs up and goes to sleep in document storage. After some deliberation, he leaves the lamp on. He doesn’t want Martin to wake up alone and in the dark. Not again.

***

The next night, about ten minutes after Jon hears Martin close the door to document storage, Jon heads over. “Martin?” he calls.

After a moment, Martin opens the door. “Yes?”

“Sorry to intrude,” Jon says. “I just need to retrieve some files. You can go back to sleep. I’ll lock the door behind me.”

Martin looks—a little bit annoyed, to be honest, but he lets him in, and the he just—sits on the bed, watching.

“You can go back to sleep,” Jon says, grabbing a file box and pretending to look through it.

“It’s only nine. I can just wait until you’re done.”

This isn’t right at all. Jon can’t leave until Martin is asleep, reassured by another person’s presence. Jon thinks for a moment, then sits on the floor, taking files out of the box one-by-one.

“What are you doing?” Martin says. He sounds tired. Exactly why he should just go to sleep.

“I’m—sorting,” Jon says.

“Do you have to do that in here?”

“Yes,” Jon says.

“Then—” Martin lets out a sigh. “Can’t you just do it tomorrow? You’re already working four hours overtime, and it’s not like the files are going anywhere. And I am trying to sleep.”

“I—” Martin looks serious, frowning at him. Jon wilts. “Alright. I guess I’ll just—” He puts the box on the shelf and leaves, and before he can turn and say something else, Martin has shut and locked the door behind him.

***

Martin doesn’t sleep well, that night. Jon can tell, because the next day he’s got dark circles under his eyes, and two of his energy drinks disappear from the fridge before the day is over.

That night, Jon tries a different tack. He goes to document storage after Martin has gone to bed, this time with a mug of tea in his hand. Chamomile. He’d read that it was good for sleeping.

“I brought you tea,” Jon says defensively, before Martin can snap anything at him.

“Oh,” Martin says. He looks vaguely confused, but he takes it.

Jon just stares at Martin. There’s a deep exhaustion in his eyes, and it makes Jon ache.

“Well… goodnight, then,” Martin says.

“Um. If you need me, I’ll be in my office. Right down the hall.”

“Okay?” Martin says.

“And—and I probably won’t go home tonight. So, so even if it’s really late, I’ll still be here.”

Martin opens his mouth. “Jon, you need to go home.”

“No, I don’t.”

Martin laughs, slightly, in a horrified way. “Yes. You definitely do. You need to sleep!”

“No, you need to sleep!” Jon snaps.

There’s silence for a moment, and Jon backpedals. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—It’s none of my business. I just—never mind.”

Obviously Martin doesn’t want his help. Obviously. Jon is the one who caused all this, why would Martin want him?

“Jon, what is this about?” Martin says.

“You aren’t sleeping,” Jon says, a bit desperately. “And I know it helps when you have someone else around. So—”

“You’re trying to be around,” Martin finishes. Something in his face softens. “Listen, Jon, I really appreciate the concern, but you can’t just stay here with me 24/7. You need sleep, too.”

Jon taps his finger against his leg several times, thinking. “What if I got a second cot?”

Martin laughs. “Jon, the first cot barely fits.”

“No, you’re right,” Jon says, still thinking. “But what if—What if you came to my flat?” It’s the perfect solution, isn’t it? He’s shocked he didn’t think of it already.

“Jon, I can’t intrude on you like that—”

“It’s not an intrusion,” Jon says. “Not at all.” It is his fault, after all. “You can take my couch. It’s—it’s nicer than the one in the break room.”

Martin opens his mouth, seemingly to protests again.

“Martin, I’m not going home unless you’re with me,” Jon says, planting his feet. “We can stay here, or we can stay at my flat, but I’m—I’m not leaving you alone.”

Martin hesitates, then buckles. “I—Okay.”

***

III. Martin

Martin cannot believe this is happening. He’s in Jon’s flat. Jon is making up the sofa for him. Jon—noticed that he was having trouble, figured out the cause, and went out of his way to fix it.

It… makes Martin pretty emotional, to be honest.

Jon shows him the bathroom, and then wishes him goodnight, heading down the hall towards his bedroom. He leaves the door open.

Martin lays down on the couch, beneath the pile of blankets Jon gave him. His body aches with exhaustion, but it’s... cozy. For the first time since Prentiss, he truly feels relaxed.

Martin sleeps soundly, and he doesn’t have nightmares.

#tma #tma fic #febuwhump #febuwhumpday6 #my fic #insomnia cw #worms cw #nightmares cw #i should really start writing these earlier in the day than like 8pm #but i guess night time is when my brain likes to write so that is when we write

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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

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Chapter 23: Tim

Sasha at least has the decency to call Saturday afternoon to say that her “appointment” ran late and she’s spending the night in her own flat, which is closer, but Tim’s a bit more upset about it than he really has any right to be. Martin and Jon seem to understand, though, or at least not to blame him, and he falls asleep tucked between them on the sofa. He wakes up Sunday morning a bit stiff and sore, but feeling safe and comforted for the first time in a while, and for the first time actually stays where he is rather than getting up immediately. Sunday night, when she still doesn’t come back, the three of them pile into Tim’s bed.

It makes him feel a little better come Monday morning, although he still doesn’t completely relax until Sasha stumbles in with her coffee and a box of pastries as a peace offering. He’s happier to see her safe than to see the box of doughnuts, but he’s not going to complain about those, either.

They spend the first few minutes of the day sharing Sasha’s doughnuts and telling her about the house they toured on Saturday. She’s politely enthusiastic, but in her eyes there’s a hint of don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask that makes something sink in Tim’s stomach. She’s not interested in sharing a house with the others, no matter how much space of her own she could have. She’s vague about what she was doing on Saturday, and Tim decides that pressing her isn’t going to be a good idea. As a result, at least in his opinion, Monday is a bit tense, especially compared to how things have been in the last two months. He’s a little bit anxious and agitated when she insists on going home after work again, so Martin makes grilled cheese sandwiches because they’re a childish comfort food of Tim’s. They end up sitting around the kitchen table going over their finances, and Tim forgets his worries about Sasha in favor of being horrified at how much of Martin’s paycheck is going to his mother’s care home bills, but the overall end result is that Tim makes an appointment for them to see a banker on Thursday.

Sasha is enthusiastic for them, even if she’s not planning to be a part of things, so the mood on Tuesday morning is high. Martin goes on the warpath against the cobwebs cluttering up the corners of the Archive shelves while Tim pours on the charm to try and wheedle records out of people who shouldn’t give them out and Sasha coaxes secrets out of the Internet. Jon shuts himself up in his office, presumably to do whatever digital recordings he can; the statements might not be genuine encounters, but since Elias doesn’t know they know what’s what, they have to keep up appearances, at least for now.

All that changes when Sasha’s desk phone rings.

“Archives, Sasha James speaking,” she says, her voice crisp and professional. A look crosses over her face that Tim can’t identify, but her voice never changes. “Of course. I’ll be right up.” She hangs up and looks over at Tim. “That was Manal at Reception. Someone’s here to make a statement.”

“And we can’t send them to Research because…?” Tim prompts.

“Don’t know why it doesn’t work that way, honestly, but one of you better let Jon know someone’s coming. I’m on escort duty.” Sasha closes her laptop and heads for the steps, coming back briefly to retrieve her shoes.

Tim sighs and goes over to Jon’s office, since Martin is still back in the stacks, so to speak. They’ve all grown comfortable enough with one another, especially in the last two months, that Tim doesn’t bother knocking; anyway, digital statements are easy to edit, or even re-record, if the sound quality isn’t the best. He just pushes open the door and sticks his head in. “Hey, boss, just a—” he begins, then stops. Dread rushes through him.

The office is empty.

“Jon?” Tim calls, just to confirm Jon isn’t ducking under his desk for some reason. He already knows it’s useless, though. The pile of statements next to his desk are neatly arranged and closed, his laptop is shut, and most importantly, his mug of tea isn’t sitting on the end of the desk.

Tim uses a string of words that his nonno wasn’t supposed to use in front of the children and ducks out of the office, trying not to panic. He knows it’s ridiculous. Nothing’s stalking them at the moment, there’s no imminent danger. There’s no reason to worry. Jon’s probably fine. He’s probably getting a cup of tea from the break room.

Except that they have a tea station in the Archives now, so he doesn’t need to go that far. And Tim’s noticed that Jon never seems to finish his tea unless Martin makes it, which he probably wouldn’t have spotted if not for the fact that he’s kind of the same way. And Jon’s usually good about telling them when he’s ducking out.

“Martin!” Tim calls, pulling the door shut and trying to keep the hysterical edge out of his voice. “Have you seen Jon?”

Martin pops around the edge of a shelf, a slight frown on his face. “Isn’t he still down in the tunnels?”

“The tunnels?” Tim feels his heart begin to slow down, and he wonders if the doorknob is going to be strong enough to keep him upright when his knees buckle. “I didn’t know he went down there.”

“Yeah, about…” Martin twists his wrist and peers at the inside of it. He’s the only person Tim knows under the age of thirty who still wears a wristwatch. “Forty-five minutes ago, maybe? Did you not notice?”

“I was…probably on the phone with someone,” Tim admits, feeling embarrassed. “God. But he did let you know?”

“Not sure he would have if I hadn’t caught him,” Martin says, a hint of disapproval in his tone. “He promised he wouldn’t be long, though.”

“Well, it’s time to come up. Someone’s coming to give a statement,” Tim tells him. “You want to go fetch him? I don’t think there’s much service down there.”

Martin hesitates, then, to Tim’s surprise, shakes his head. “You go get him. I’ll…is Sasha fetching whoever’s got the statement?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I’ll stick around. Make tea. It’ll probably help. You go get Jon.” Martin catches Tim’s raised eyebrow and smiles slightly. “I know what panic looks like, Tim. You’re not going to relax until you’re sure he’s okay. Am I right?”

Tim manages a smile in reply. “You’re not wrong.”

“So go get him. I know where he is, more or less, so I’m not worrying. This time,” Martin adds. “I’ll try to keep things under control until you get Jon back.”

“You’re the best, Martin.” Tim kisses Martin on the cheek without thinking as he passes by. He realizes what he’s just done a second later and almost trips over his own feet, but then decides, at this point, he’s better off pretending that never happened and moving on with his life, so he heads over to the trapdoor without looking back and hopes Martin can’t see him blushing. Mentally, he runs through a few more of those words that would have Nonna applying a wooden spoon to his backside had he said them aloud.

At this point, they’ve all been down at least once, so Tim knows by now which room the Primes are staying in. He raps lightly on the door and calls, “Jon? It’s Tim. You in there?”

“Come in, Tim,” someone calls. Tim thinks it’s one of the Jons.

He pushes open the door and is relieved to see his—their—Jon talking to the Primes. Jon looks honestly confused as he glances down at his phone. “I swear I was watching the time,” he protests. “And I did tell Martin I was coming. I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Tim decides not to pick that fight. “I believe you. Sorry to cut this short, but someone’s here to make a statement.”

Jon’s shoulders slump. “God,” he says under his breath. “Did they say what it was about?”

“Dunno. Front desk called. Sasha went to fetch whoever it is and I said I’d give you a heads-up. Martin said he’d stall until I brought you back.”

Jon glances at the Primes. “I don’t suppose it’s a false alarm.”

“I don’t think I took a live statement I could record on the laptop after the first six months,” Jon Prime says apologetically. “It’s probably…Christ, what was the…? I swear I only had three live statements on tape before Jane Prentiss attacked. There was Naomi Hearn, then Melanie King, then…”

“That surgeon,” Martin Prime supplies. “The one whose students all had placeholder names.”

“Oh, God, yeah, the apple.” Jon Prime shakes his head. “It’s a Stranger statement.”

Jon sighs heavily and starts to stand. “I suppose I ought to take it,” he says reluctantly. “It’s a shame…never mind.”

“No, what?” Tim insists. “If there’s anything we can do to help…”

“Unfortunately, I’m not sure I’ll be able to justify all of you sitting in on the statement. The live ones are the worst, energy-wise. And I’d hoped to—” Jon meets Tim’s eyes, then looks away, obviously embarrassed.

Tim gets it. Even sleeping between Jon and Martin last night, he’s sure his nightmares were bad. They all know the only way for it to stop is for him to make the statement, and he wants to tell both of them about Danny. But if Jon takes a live statement today, it’ll probably be another week before he can take another, and that’s assuming nobody else comes in with a real one.

“If I may make a suggestion?”

Tim and Jon both turn to look at Jon Prime, who looks up at them with a curious expression. “I’m open to any,” Jon answers.

“If Sasha is escorting your statement-giver downstairs, that means it’s only the four of you down in the Archives,” Jon Prime says. “And as he’s never met you, he has no idea what to expect you to look like.”

“Are you suggesting—what are you suggesting?” Jon narrows his eyes at his counterpart.

Martin Prime pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, closing his eyes as if he has a headache. “He’s suggesting that he go up there with Tim and take the statement for you.”

Jon Prime gestures at Martin Prime grandly. Tim and Jon exchange looks. It’s not actually a bad idea. It’ll keep Jon from sinking any deeper than he already has, at least not yet, and he still doesn’t want that much power. And as Jon Prime said, nobody other than the four of them will know Jon Prime isn’t Jon…as long as Elias doesn’t come down.

“That…could work,” Jon says cautiously. He glances at Tim. “You’ll let the others know why we’re doing this?”

Tim nods. “’Course. And if it’s fake after all, Jon Prime can eat him.”

“I don’t eat people. Only their fear.” Jon Prime kisses Martin Prime’s cheek, the same way Tim accidentally did Martin, which he tries very hard not to think about. “I’ll be back. Half an hour, tops.”

“Be careful.” Martin Prime squeezes his hand, but lets him go. Jon offers Tim a weak smile and sits back down as well.

Tim leads Jon Prime out of the room and into the corridors. As they reach the foot of the steps, Jon Prime says casually, “Care to tell me why you’re blushing, Tim?”

“No,” Tim answers promptly. “No, I would not.”

Jon Prime’s chuckle follows Tim up the steps. He pointedly ignores it.

Martin’s good at this. He and Sasha have positioned their guest—a tall, austere man in a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair—with his back to the trap door. He’s cradling a steaming cup of tea and listening to Martin explain something. Martin’s eyes drift over the man’s shoulder, not enough to be obvious, and meet Tim’s. Tim flashes an OK sign and stands aside to let Jon Prime out, then carefully closes the trapdoor behind him.

Jon Prime takes a moment to collect himself, like an actor preparing to go onstage. His head goes up, his shoulders go back, and a cold, professional veneer drops over his face. In an instant, he’s put on the persona Jon wore up until Jane Prentiss attacked, and now only trots out for special occasions, like Elias dropping by to “make sure things are going well”. Tim hasn’t seen it in weeks, and he’s never seen it on Jon Prime. It’s somehow even more impressive and intimidating, between the hair, the scars, and the fact that Jon Prime is usually so expressive. He’s looked amused, fond, exasperated, tender, panicked, and utterly besotted, but never blank and stern. There’s just the faintest hint of annoyance in his expression, and Tim finds himself bracing to apologize to the older man who’s about to have to face Jonathan “This is a complete waste of time” Sims.

“May I help you?” Jon Prime says as he strides over, every word crisp and distinct, holding himself like a respectable academic and not an eldritch horror from outside of time and space piloting a battered meat suit.

The man turns around and starts slightly at the sight of Jon Prime, but rallies and offers him a wary nod and a smile. “I certainly hope so. Are you the Head Archivist?”

“Jonathan Sims.” Jon Prime extends his hand. “And you are…?”

“Dr. Lionel Elliott. I’m a professor at Kings College, London.” Dr. Elliott accepts Jon Prime’s hand and shakes it. An odd look comes over his face. “That’s a rather nasty scar. Surprised it didn’t do more damage to your hand.”

“It’s a rather old injury at this point, and I’ve had extensive physical therapy,” Jon Prime says curtly. “I appreciate your concern, however. What may I help you with?”

“Ah.” Dr. Elliott takes a breath. “I was hoping to…make a statement. I had a…deeply unpleasant experience with a class over this last term, and…I hear this institution makes a collection of such things? I—I was hoping you could tell me…that you could help me with it.”

“I see,” Jon Prime says, as if this is news to him. “Well, we’ll certainly see what we can do. If you’ll step into my office?”

He escorts Dr. Elliott to Jon’s office. The second the door closes behind them, the other two turn to look at Tim, Sasha’s eyes curious and Martin’s worried and pleading. Tim holds up his hands to stave off Martin’s concern. In a low voice, he says, “Jon’s fine. We just thought…doing it this way might mean Jon doesn’t have to start sinking so deep. And, well, it’s one less nightmare for him.”

Martin exhales heavily. The worry doesn’t really disappear from his eyes, but it at least shifts its focus, Tim guesses. He can understand that. They’ve all slept in proximity to one another enough to know that Jon’s nightmares are bad and Tim’s aren’t much better. If Martin has nightmares, they’re silent, which isn’t necessarily a point in their favor.

Sasha heads back to her desk. “So this is a real one, is it?”

“Apparently. Jon Prime thinks it’s the Stranger. Not the doctor,” Tim adds quickly as all the color drains out of Martin’s face and he turns towards the office. “Whoever he came in contact with. We’re safe enough. I think.”

Martin inhales, holds the breath for a few seconds, and then lets it out in a slow hiss. “I’m going to go finish digging out those statements. Maybe we can get started on dividing up the work while…he handles that.” He stalks back into the shelves. Tim watches him go, then sighs and thumps into his seat.

A minute or two later, Martin comes back with a stack of files and drops them on his desk. Tim reaches over and snags about half of them and scans the labels. Now that he’s familiar with Gertrude’s numbering system, such as it is, he can see that all but one of the files he’s grabbed are from within the last ten years or so. The other…

“Jesus, is this from the 1800s?” Tim opens the file. It contains nothing except a letter on old, yellowed paper, scorched in places and written in very shaky handwriting that fades in and out. The date at the top is clearly legible, however: November 10, 1845. “1845. Anything important happen that year?”

Martin shrugs. “I mean…depends on what you consider important?”

“Well, what do you know happened that year?” Tim almost asks what do you consider important, but he doesn’t want to diminish anything Martin might know.

“Edgar Allen Poe published The Raven. Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning met, and she started writing her Sonnets from the Portuguese. The Yarmouth suspension bridge collapsed and killed eighty people, mostly children. First year of the Great Famine in Ireland. And I think it was the year the rubber band was invented, or at least patented, but you’d have to ask Jon about that.”

“He’d know.” Tim carefully picks up the first page. “Let’s see what our spooky correspondent has to say.”

He’s quickly absorbed in the story. Despite the faded and patchy ink, it’s surprisingly easy to read, once he gets into it, and the woman’s tale grips him in a way he can’t explain. Absently, he picks up a pen and slides over a notebook to begin jotting down notes to follow up on, inasmuch as he can follow up on something almost older than the Institute itself. It’s a challenge, and Tim likes a challenge.

“Christ,” he says on a sigh, setting down the last page of the letter at last. “That’s a weird one. Gonna be fun to follow up on. Whatcha got there, Marto?”

“Ah, it’s a statement regarding a—deep-dive, somewhere in Canada. Looks like a lot.” Martin angles the page towards Tim. “And look who’s involved.”

“Simon Fairchild,” Tim reads. “Didn’t…they mention him being related to one of the entities?”

“The Vast. I never thought about the deep sea being part of that, but…makes sense.” Martin checks the list he made. “Few names to follow up on. What about you? What’ve you got?”

“Cannibalism on the Oregon Trail. I thought it might’ve been the Stranger at first, but now it’s pretty obviously the Flesh.” Tim looks over at Sasha, who’s typing away on her computer. “Might need you to get on some of this, Sash.”

“One of these days I will get used to the two of you discussing these…things like you’re talking about what you watched on television over the weekend,” Sasha says without looking up. “Today is not that day.”

Martin winces. “Sorry.”

Sasha waves him off and holds out a hand. “Give me the names. Both of you. I can at least get started on that while you two dissect more statements.”

Tim rips off the top page of his notebook. Martin hesitates. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Everything else I had for today is done.”

Martin shrugs and hands her his notes, then grabs the next file and flips it open.

They’re both about halfway through their second files when the door to Jon’s office opens. Tim looks up and for a minute is genuinely startled to see the scars dotting Jon’s face and hands, until his brain catches up with the fact that it’s Jon Prime. His eyes scan the group for a moment as he emerges behind their guest. “Sasha, can you escort Dr. Elliott out of the Archives, please?”

“Oh, no need, it’s a straight shot, after all.” Dr. Elliot balls something up in his hand. “Thank you for your time. Do let me know what you find.”

“Of course,” Jon Prime assures him, a bit stiffly.

They all watch Dr. Elliott stride up the stairs. Tim mentally counts off the number of steps to the main floor of the Institute, and once he’s sure Dr. Elliott is out, he turns to Jon Prime. “Was it real?”

“Oh, yes, it’s exactly the statement I thought it was,” Jon Prime says, a bit absently. “There won’t be much follow-up you can do, honestly. The names of all the students were basically the official placeholder names in several countries. They’re definitely creatures of the Stranger, anyway. You can speak to Elena Bower in the Kings College administration office if you’d like to confirm that the class actually happened, just for the form of things, but beyond that, a dead end.”

“Good, maybe Jon’ll let us focus on these,” Tim grunts, looking down at the paper in front of him. I also started to notice, on some of the pages, a faint scorching around the edges, though it would be some time before my own attempts to burn it proved how resilient it really was. “I know how much he loves anything involving Leitners.”

“You’ve got one, too?” Martin looks up from what he’s reading. “I’m assuming this is a Leitner in this one. Haven’t finished yet, but it’s definitely a book, and he—he mentions a library sticker that’s mostly missing.”

“Nobody’s said anything about a library sticker in this one, but it’s a creepy book full of eerily detailed stories of dead people, so I’m assuming,” Tim drawls.

Jon Prime peers over Tim’s shoulder. “Yes and no. Leitner really didn’t have…he was simply a librarian, of sorts. A—a collector. Not every book involving one of the Powers passed through his hands. I don’t believe that particular book was one of them.”

Tim looks up at Jon Prime. “The End?”

“I believe so, yes…Martin, which one do you have?”

“Um, Tales of a Field Hospital. I thought it was the End at first, but the things he talks about these soldiers dying of…it reads more like the Corruption to me.”

Jon Prime looks pleased, like he’s just received an answer from a prize student. “John Amherst. I remember that one. I think it was the third time I’d come across the name at that point.”

“It’s a new one by me,” Martin says, then pauses. “Wait, no—that nursing home we’ve been looking into, Ivy Meadows. Wasn’t John Amherst the man who took it over?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Sasha says, still absorbed in her computer. “Can’t find much about him, though, which probably should have been my first clue. The harder these people are to pin down, the closer they are to the entities, seems like.”

“You’re not wrong about that,” Jon Prime tells her. “The entities protect their own, and the longer-lived ones are quite good at covering their traces, for the most part.”

Tim snorts. “I would be, too, if I knew the Ring-Maker was going to scrutinize every possible reference someone else made to me and try and track me down.”

Martin points his pen at Tim, his face almost comically stern. “If you start calling this place Barad-dûr, I will dump you in a volcano myself.”

“You even got the accent right,” Tim says, unaccountably pleased.

“Nerds. You are both nerds,” Sasha announces, as if this is a great revelation and not the culmination of several years’ worth of observation.

Jon Prime shakes his head as if in exasperation, but he’s dropped the Head Archivist mask and he looks amused. “Right, well, that ought to keep me going for a bit. I’ll head back and send out—”

“’Scuse us.”

The voice startles Tim, and he looks up sharply to see two men standing in the Archives. He has no idea where they came from, or how they got into the Archives without any of them noticing, since they’re both big men. They’re dressed like typical delivery men, but there’s something about them that makes Tim’s blood run cold. One of them is carrying a clipboard. The other is carrying a package.

“Looking for the Archivist,” says the one holding the package. He has a Cockney accent, but it sounds a bit fake, like someone who’s watched Mary Poppins six hundred times and thinks Dick Van Dyke is actually British.

“I’m sorry, are you two meant—” Martin begins, standing up, which Tim thinks is rather brave of him. He stands, too, instinctively wanting to protect Martin and Sasha but not quite sure how he’s going to, especially since Martin seems to be trying to protect him.

“Won’t take up your time,” says the man with the clipboard.

“Just got a delivery,” adds the man with the package.

“Right, but you shouldn’t—” Martin tries.

“Package for Jonathan Sims.”

“Says right here.”

They toss the words back and forth, not exactly finishing each other’s sentences but definitely sounding as though they’re one person divided in two. It’s a bit dizzying and a lot disconcerting and Tim is unaccountably scared.

“I am the Archivist,” Jon Prime says. His voice is low and dangerous as he steps forward and physically puts himself between the two delivery men and the three assistants. It shouldn’t be intimidating, considering he’s literally the smallest person in the room, but he radiates an aura of power and subtle menace. For the first time, Tim truly understands what the Primes have been talking about…and what their Jon is afraid of becoming.

“Sign here,” the man with the clipboard says, thrusting it towards him.

“For the package,” the man with the package clarifies.

“Something else upstairs for you.”

“Lady at the desk signed for it.”

“You don’t need my signature,” Jon Prime says, and holds out his hand for the package.

“Sure we do.”

“That’s protocol.”

“Really,” Jon Prime says, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. “You thrive on anonymity and you won’t respect the desires of others to remain that way?” Static crackles in the air, and Tim finds himself taking a half-step closer to Martin, who reaches out and presses a hand flat against his back as if in comfort or support. “I Know who you are. I Know who you work for. I See you.”

The static rises in pitch, almost as bad as when Jon Prime tried to look into the Eye back in Tim’s living room. Tim winces and shrinks against Martin, grabbing for him without conscious thought. Martin grabs him back, evidently gritting his teeth against the pain. The two delivery men look upset, uncomfortable—scared. Tim almost sympathizes with them.

“What’re you doing?” asks one.

“Stop it,” the other orders, or tries to.

“Leave the package and go,” Jon Prime orders, and his voice has an almost hollow echo to it. “And leave them alone.”

The one with the package practically throws it at him. Jon Prime lets it fall to the ground at his feet and stares at the two men as they practically stumble over one another trying to get to the steps.

After a moment, the static vanishes as abruptly as it began, and Jon Prime’s shoulders slump as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Tim realizes he’s clutching Martin like a drowning man, but he’s not particularly inclined to let go.

“You know, those statements won’t sustain you for long if you immediately expend all the energy you obtain from them,” Sasha observes. Tim blinks at her in astonishment. He has no clue how she can be so…calm after that, but there’s an intensity to her gaze and a brightness to her face that he doesn’t think was there before. “Who was that?”

“Breekon and Hope,” Jon Prime says softly. He bends down to pick up the package.

Martin eases up his death grip on Tim’s shirt, but doesn’t let go completely. “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice wavering.

Tim’s not sure who he’s actually addressing, but Jon Prime answers. “I’m fine. I only scared them a bit. Put the fear of the Eye in them, I suppose, not that that’s entirely difficult.” He turns around and studies Tim and Martin, and his face softens. “Are you all right?”

“I-I think so.” Martin sounds uncertain. “Tim, are you…?”

“I don’t know,” Tim lies. He does know. He’s definitely not all right. He’s shaken to his core and he’s not sure if it’s from Jon Prime’s display of power or from the presence of the two delivery men or from Sasha being so into it or some combination of the three.

Martin tries to help Tim sit down, but Tim clings to him. He doesn’t really have it in himself to be embarrassed by it, either. Martin, thank God, doesn’t force the issue, just shifts his arms to comfort him a little better, even though Martin probably needs the comfort, too.

Jon Prime reaches out like he wants to put his hand on Tim’s shoulder, but stops just before he makes contact and draws back. Quietly, he says, “I’ll send your Jon up. I—I am sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s fine,” Tim says, and means it. He’s not afraid of Jon Prime, not really. What he can do, possibly, but not of him.

Jon Prime does touch his shoulder lightly, then Martin’s, before disappearing in the direction of the trapdoor. Tim closes his eyes and tries to focus on Martin murmuring soothing nonsense at him in the hopes that it will actually soothe him.

“Tim? Tim! Oh, God.” It’s Jon’s voice and suddenly Jon is there, awkwardly hugging Tim from behind. “Jon Prime told me—a-are you all right?”

“Getting there,” Tim mumbles. He frees one hand and grips the nearest one of Jon’s—it’s cold as ice, he’s got terrible circulation—and tucks his chin onto Martin’s shoulder.

The three of them stand like that for a few minutes, until Tim stops shaking and he feels his breathing even out. He takes a deep breath and slowly eases his grip on Martin and on Jon’s hand; obviously understanding, the other two let go of him, but they don’t go far.

“Better?” Martin asks gently.

Tim nods. “Thank you,” he says, his voice a bit hoarse, as he looks from Martin to Jon. He catches Sasha’s eye, from where she still sits behind her computer; she gives him a slightly guilty look, and he tries to smile to let her know he doesn’t judge her. He’s not sure he pulls it off.

Jon takes a half-step back and bunches the cuffs of his cardigan up in his hands—it may be July, but the climate control system in the Archives maintains a steady temperature to preserve the more delicate documents and it’s usually kind of chilly down here, so they’re definitely used to wearing sweaters or jackets year-round by now. “What happened? All Jon Prime said was that ‘the delivery came’ and he thought you might—” He breaks off, his eyes flicking back and forth between Martin and Tim, with a side trip to Sasha.

“Right after Dr. Elliott left, a couple of delivery men showed up,” Sasha tells him. She pushes something on the edge of her desk towards Jon, and it takes Tim a second to realize it’s the package the men threw at Jon Prime. “They delivered that, and also something upstairs that I think they had either Rosie or Manal sign for, probably Rosie. It’s addressed to you, anyway. Jon Prime stared them down and drew a bit on the Eye’s power to tell them to go away. I mean, they were a bit creepy, but they didn’t seem that bad. He said they were Breekon and Hope.”

“Bree—? Oh, God, the table,” Jon says softly, his eyes going wide. “It must have been the table. They said—oh, God.”

Sasha holds up a finger and pushes away from her desk. Tim watches her go, then turns to Jon with a little bit of trepidation. “What’s in that one?”

Jon opens the box gingerly, as if it might contain a bomb. What he pulls out, however, is an old lighter. It’s gold, or at least Tim thinks it’s gold for a second before he realizes it’s probably actually brass, and there’s a design on the front that looks like it might be a spiderweb. Jon holds it gingerly, like it might be going to attack him, which makes sense; the Web probably terrifies him as much as the Stranger scares Tim, and for a similar reason.

Martin’s face goes almost paper-white beneath his freckles. “That’s the—Martin Prime gave me that same lighter to set the fire when Jane Prentiss got in. Christ.”

Jon’s fingers curl lightly around the lighter, and he takes a deep breath, then slips it into his pocket just as Sasha returns with two folders. She waves the one in her left hand in Jon’s direction. “Leanne Denikin’s file, containing crime scene reports for both Joshua Drury and Henry Winchester.” She waves the right one. “Amy Patel’s statement, complete with description of the table. Do you want to run these up to Artifact Storage or do you want me to?”

“I—I probably ought to. It might carry more…emphasis coming from me, and after all, the table was addressed to me. In theory.” Jon takes the folders and frowns at the spines. “What’s this?”

“Oh, um, actually, I did that,” Martin says. “I’m starting to, anyway. I—I found all these colored labels in one of the filing cabinets last year, and, well, we weren’t using them so I just left them, but after—after everything, I just, well, I thought it might help us a bit if we could look at the files we’ve already done and know right away if they’re real or not and what they deal with, so I’ve been sort of trying to color-code them. There are only ten different colors, but I’m just combining for the higher numbers.” Jon actually smiles, for the first time since coming up from the tunnels. “That’s brilliant. Would you write out what your system is so we all know to start using it? I’ll—I’ll be right back.” His smile fades a little bit as he looks at Tim. “Are you all right now?”

“As all right as I will be, I guess.” Tim summons up a smile. “Thanks, boss.”

Jon pats his arm, a little awkwardly, then turns and heads for the steps. They all watch him go for a minute, then Sasha turns to Martin. “Right, explain this system of yours.”

It’s at once simple and ingenious, a basic combination of numbers and colors that nevertheless paints a vivid picture. Martin even designated the zero alone for those statements that are demonstrably false. It does mean they’re going to need a lot of zeroes, but Martin’s right, it will help a lot. And it’s not like they have to publicize what those labels mean. On those rare occasions that researching students need the files, they can just say it’s an internal filing system and leave it at that. Once Martin’s explained it, Sasha offers to start putting labels on those files they’ve already researched and recorded while Martin and Tim go back to sorting through the files Martin Prime evidently gathered for them.

Jon returns with the two files under his arm, looking a bit peaked, and Martin immediately sets aside the file and gets up to make tea. Tim offers him a crooked grin, which he actually returns, then turns to Jon. “All right?”

“I don’t know.” Jon sits on the edge of Tim’s desk and sets the files down carefully, out of the way of Tim’s work. “Elias turned up while I was trying to convince Dr. Bradley I wasn’t playing around. He agreed with me that the table was dangerous, but suggested it ought to be destroyed. I—I don’t know if I made much sense when I said I wanted to be sure it could be done safely. I hope I didn’t let on that I know more than I ought to.”

Tim doesn’t want to say it, but he feels like he has to. “If he can read minds…”

“I know. I’m almost positive that’s why he came in when he did. Dr. Bradley did at least promise not to have any of his practical researchers touch the table.” Jon sighs heavily, then accepts the cup of tea from Martin with a quiet thanks and a smile. “What are you two working on?”

“Martin dug out the files Martin Prime gathered for us,” Tim informs him. He turns to Martin in surprise when Martin hands him his own cup of tea, then takes it and lets the warmth soak into his palms. “We’ve been reading through them and trying to get an idea of what we’re dealing with. Sasha started running down some of the names we came up with, but right now we’re just…skimming, I guess.”

“What have you found so far?” Jon asks, sounding both interested and cautious.

“We’ve gone through two each and just started our third,” Martin says. “One Vast, one Flesh, one End, one Corruption. And then…these two.” He gestures at the file in front of him and the one open on Tim’s desk. “I’m…actually still not completely sure about this one. She’s talking about insomnia, and it does seem…odd? But I can’t figure out which one it falls under. Not yet. I’m only just getting into it, though…what’s yours, Tim?”

“Actually, I don’t know either.” Tim frowns at the statement he’s been reading. “I think this one might be a dud. I mean—he’s blind, and he’s not…he said it was just what he felt was real. He could be wrong, right? This looks like an old soldier playing a prank. It’s going on about the devil being part of the British army, and I’m pretty sure that’s an Irish folk song, but—” He turns the page and blinks. “Hang on, this isn’t—this is a different handwriting. What the…?” He skims the second page quickly, then his eyes widen as it hits him. “Christ, I think this is more from Trevor Herbert.”

“The vampire hunter?” Martin asks, startled, setting aside his papers and coming to look over Tim’s shoulder. “I could’ve sworn he—I-I mean, I never met him or anything, but I thought they said he lay down and never woke up.”

“Maybe they only meant he should never have woken up,” Jon says, peering over Tim’s other shoulder. “Or—well, it’s dated the same day as the earlier statement, look. Maybe he just lay down later than you thought he did.”

“Maybe.” Martin sounds vaguely distressed.

Tim squeezes his hand. “It’s okay. You know we don’t expect you to know everything about what goes on at the Institute, right? I mean, there are like two hundred people working here. Even after ten years, you can’t know them all.”

Martin manages a smile in reply. Jon nods and reaches for the papers. “Here, I’ll—do you mind if I take those? Since they don’t go in this folder, after all.”

Tim hands the pages over. “I really do think the rest of this is fake, though. Probably got mis-filed. I no longer doubt Martin Prime’s statement senses, but I’m guessing that those pages there were what he sensed in this file.”

“You’re probably right. Set that one aside for now.”

Tim closes the remains of the file and grabs another. He opens it, glances at the first page, sees the words urban exploration, and can’t help the sudden, sharp intake of breath. He waves off his friends’ concern, though. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ve got this.” For now, anyway, he thinks but doesn’t say.

Maybe he doesn’t have to. They all go back to what they’re doing, but Jon stays out with the rest of them until it’s time for them to start lunch breaks. And they don’t let Tim go anywhere alone for the rest of the day.

He’s more grateful for that than he would have thought.

#ollie writes fanfic #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#tma #the magnus archives #breekon & hope #panic attack tw #I love Tim with my entire #despite what I keep doing to him

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heyitsani · 3 years

Text

I Keep My Eyes Wide Open All the Time Chapter 5

Word Count: 7078

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Major character death, Mentions of past rape/non-con (eventually)

Pairing: Jason Todd/Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne/Jon Kent (hinted?)

Summary: The Feast of the Seven brings a source of comfort to Damian. Comfort that will help him get through yet another loss.

Notes: All right, this branches into some new territory that has not previously been touched because you are seeing it from Damian’s eyes. And Dick was too heartbroken to see most of it. Next chapter is all things you have not seen at all. We branch into whole new sides of the story because this chapter is where the last story ended.

Lots more angst in the next chapter. Chapter 7 will bring more fluff than angst.

If you have not read When You Move I Move, this one won’t really make much sense. So you can read that here: WYMIM

You can also read this chapter on AO3 here

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The Great Hall was already bustling with people when Damian made his way down the first morning of the Feast. It may have been his first, but he was well read on what happened during the seven days. Each morning people came from all over and made a contribution to the kitchen for the feast that would be laid out for all to partake in the same evening. His grandfather had told him that the crown usually provided the vast majority, but from the looks of the items on the long table in the center of the room, that wouldn’t be the case this time.

“It’s quite the sight, isn’t it?” Damian turned to find Ser Roy standing behind him, out of his uniform and far more casual than he had ever seen the man. Damian was certain he had never seen the solider in anything other than his uniform. “I think the history books will record this as the most generous Feast our kingdom as ever seen.”

Looking back to the table, watching a few citizens placing more items on the already overflowing table, Damian felt his sadness surge. “He left so many behind.”

Roy hummed. “He did, Your Highness. That he did.” The pair stood in silence for a moment longer before Ser Roy laid a hand on his shoulder, gave it a gentle squeeze and left the room. But Damian found himself rooted in his spot, watching people come and go. A few of the citizens greeted him and he returned their attention, but for the most part he was left alone in his observations.

But once it seemed that there was to be a lull in people coming in, Damian made his way over toward the kitchens out of sheer habit, pausing right outside the entry way. He could see the counter where he and Ser Jason had spent so many meals, and snacks, together. He could see the staff bustling about, busy in their preparations for the feast and it made him wonder if he would be in the way. For once in his life, he was almost afraid to set foot in the kitchen where he had so many good memories.

“Your Highness!” The head chef called out when he was spotted, still debating if he should enter or not. “Are you going to stand in the doorway all day or would you like to sit for a spell?” Her eyes were sad and yet held so much warmth at the same time. It was enough of an invitation, despite the words she spoke, to get his feet moving. “We’ll fix you a plate up quick. Tea?”

Nodding his head, he slowly sat himself down on his usual stool. He pointedly didn’t look at the empty spot to his right, trying not to think about how lonely it felt to sit here without anyone beside him. Soon enough a plate was being placed in front of him and a teacup followed shortly. He tried not to notice how lonely the single cup and small plate looked without their usual mates. The hand that fell on the back of his neck caused his head to droop and his eyes to close.

“It will get easy, Little Prince. A bit each day.” It brought unwanted tears to his eyes, something he had been so good at avoiding up until then. “Oh, Little Prince…” He found himself being pulled into an unfamiliar embrace by a familiar person. And though Damian knew he should pull himself together, he couldn’t find the strength right then. He just needed a moment to stop trying to be strong for his father, for the family name, for impressions sake. He just needed a moment.

He didn’t notice the kitchen going quiet while he silently cried into the chef’s shoulder. He didn’t notice the aborted footsteps of another person of the castle coming into the kitchen. The hushed conversation between that person and one of the staff.

“You just let it out right now, Little Prince. You just let yourself feel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Damian,” a familiar voice called out to him as he walked down the hallway and it made him frown. He hadn’t known his uncle would be joining them during the Feast, but it was a surprise he would welcome. Turning he looked at the man at the far end of the hallway before hurrying to greet him with a hug. “Oh Nephew,” he said gently, more gently than he had ever heard from the other man. But Damian didn’t want to dissect that right then. He just wanted to accept comfort from someone who was offering it without expecting him to give it in return. Or not even being able to give it period.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” he muttered into his uncle’s shoulder.

He felt the motion of his uncle nodding but didn’t bother lifting his head. Instead he tightened his arms around the older man and clung to him the same way he had clung to his father the day Ser Jason had come home for his final rest. “Father sent a message immediately and we came as soon as it was in hand. How is your father?”

For that, Damian did lift his head. It was then he noticed Duke Kon and Jon standing a few feet away, observing. Flushing with guilt at the sight of Jon, remembering how his mother had forced him to cut off contact with the other teen, Damian dropped his gaze.

“He is not good.”

“I suspected that would be the case,” his uncle admitted. “But I can hedge a guess that he is putting up a good mask and not many realize it?” Damian looked at him and nodded. “Yes, he was always good at hiding his pain away.”

Glancing back down the hallway where he had been heading to see his father, he worried his lip for a moment. “I was just going to see if he would take lunch with me in the kitchens. Maybe you could go to him instead? I know he has not hidden much of how he’s been feeling from me, but perhaps a brother would be comforting.”

He looked back when a hand landed on his upper arm and Damian was surprised to see it was Duke Kon who had reached out to him. “Timothy and I will go to him.” Damian’s gaze flicked to Jon for a moment before looking back to his two uncles and nodded.

Timothy stepped forward again and wrapped Damian up in his arms again for a moment, Damian easily sinking into the comfort again, before stepping away to head down the hallway with his husband at his side. He watched them go for a few moments, ignoring the shifting of Jon just a few paces away, before sighing and facing the fact that he couldn’t put this off.

Slowly, hesitantly, he turned to look at Jon and found the other man watching him sadly. “Your Highness…” Damian greeted, uncertain of what to do. He could hear his mother’s voice telling him that Jon was not his friend, that he was a political ally and that was it. But he didn’t want that.

“Is that who I am now?” Jon’s voice was soft, sadness sitting heavy in the air between them. Shrugging a shoulder, Damian looked away from him and tried to think of something to say. “I can be what you need me to be, Damian.” The use of his name instead of his title caused him to close his eyes. “Do you need me to be Prince Jon? Do you want me to be?”

No. He didn’t want that at all. He knew he wanted Jon as a friend. He wanted the casual comfort between them. He wanted the easy laughter. But he didn’t know how to ask for that when his mother could be anywhere. But part of him reminded him that Jon’s friendship was worth it. Wasn’t it?

“I need to take Titus for a walk.” The words seemed to have caught Jon off guard from the look Damian could see on his face. “We usually go further into the grounds and I like to eat while he runs off his excessive energy.” Jon looked confused for a beat before understanding struck him and he nodded. Without another word, Damian watched the other man turn and hurry toward the kitchens.

He knew Jon understood what he was saying without actually saying it. So he turned and headed toward his rooms to collect Titus for the walk Jon would happen to join him on.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was following Titus down the steps into the back grounds of the castle when Jon appeared almost out of nowhere.

“Hello, Your Highness,” he greeted, voice even. But his eyes gave a twinkle of excitement. “Are you off for a walk? Might I join you?”

Nodding his head, Damian kept silent as he watched Titus bound over to Jon and greet him before circling Damian and taking off in the direction they usually went. Damian noticed the sack slung over Jon’s shoulder and gave a small smile in response.

“Shall I follow at a distance, My Prince?” Ser Kyle called from his spot near the gates where he had been speaking to some fellow guards. At Damian’s nod, the soldier gave one of his own and let the pair walk ahead of him. He knew the solider would keep them in his line of sight, but keep far enough back to give them some semblance of privacy.

“He is new?” Jon questioned, glancing back at the guard.

Damian hummed and clasped his hands behind his back. “When I turned twelve, it was decided I would have my own personal guard appointed as I was then allowed to freely walk the city grounds.” Jon didn’t reply to that, but Damian could see him nodding out of the corner of his eye. The pair walked in silence for a while, following Titus as he chased various birds and bugs through the ankle high grass on the grounds. It was comfortable. Or it would have been, if Damian hadn’t found himself so tense being so close to his former friend. Or maybe Jon was still his friend, he couldn’t be certain.

“Damian,” Jon spoke softly, reaching out and gripping the younger’s elbow to get him to stop walking. “I know what your mother did.” Frowning, Damian looked at Jon. He was sure his confusion was written plain as day. “Ser Jason sent me a letter a few months after yours stopped suddenly. I assume that is when you told him what she had demanded of you.”

Thinking back to that conversation in the kitchens, Damian felt his sadness grow again because conversations like that would never happen again. The man had been understanding and quiet, letting Damian release his frustrations and anger out on him. Then he had told Damian that even though she had told him not to, he could go to his father. That he would take care of it. But Damian was so tired of being the reason his parents were constantly at odds, so he had told his father figure that he couldn’t. That it was just better to do what she demanded and save them all the frustration and fighting.

“I need to ask you something,” Jon stepped closer and Damian watched him carefully. “I need to ask you something and I would like you to be completely honest with me, if you would?” Not trusting himself to speak, Damian nodded his head and waited while Jon seemed to gather himself. It took a few tries before the older man was finally able to get his words out. “Should I be concerned enough to bring this up with our fathers? Is…is this the first time she has made such demands of you?” The question didn’t make sense to him. But then…

Oh.

Damian had never told Jon the kind of woman his mother was. He had let Jon make his own assessments and assumptions based on what he saw during his visits, but Damian had personally never complained about the woman. And Catalina Wayne was many things, but she was always proper when there were guests in the castle. It was one of the rare times his parents wouldn’t be caught fighting any time they were in the same room.

“Not all mothers are like yours,” he admitted. “But this wouldn’t be news to my father, Jon. He, more than anyone, is well acquainted with his Queen’s short comings.” That didn’t seem to make Jon feel any better, if the tightening of the hand on his elbow was anything to go off of. “Jon…I am sorry I did not fight for you. But I must be very careful of the battles I pick. For my sake and my father’s.”

“I do not understand.”

Tugging his arm out of Jon’s grip, Damian started walking again. He gathered his thoughts before glancing back to see if Ser Kyle was in earshot or not. When he was sure the man was far enough away, Damian look at Jon as he walked beside him.

“My parents did not marry because they wanted to. They did not marry to advance an alliance between two kingdoms. They married because my mother was desperate, and my father could not marry the person he wanted to.” He watched Jon take in this information and waited, hoping he would come to the unspoken conclusion without Damian having to say it. It took a few more passing moments before Jon’s face showed his understanding. “I am a pawn to one parent and treasure to the other.”

“Dami…” Jon started but Damian waved his hand to stop him for saying whatever it was he was going to say.

“It is what it is,” Damian admitted with a shrug before pausing their walk to let out a whistle to call Titus back from wherever he had run off to. “I do not tell you this for pity. I simply want you to understand that though I deeply appreciate your friendship, you are very removed from what it is like for us here. And now more than ever…” He trailed off and watched Titus trot his way over. The dog reached them and obediently sat next to Damian’s feet.

“He loved you very much.”

“And I him.”

“I am sorry, Dami. To lose someone you love that way so suddenly, I know it must hurt.” Nodding slowly, Damian ran his hand over Titus’s head as the dog sat panting. “And you have been looking after your father. Has anyone been looking after you?”

But Damian wasn’t sure how to answer that. He had his family around him, leaning on each other to get through such a trying time. But did Damian lean on any of them that way he had allowed them to lean on him if they needed? He wasn’t sure. His father was his usual comfort but for obvious reasons that was not happening. Then it would have been Ser Jason. But he couldn’t think of a moment when he had felt comfort the past couple days. Not like he had when he had hugged his uncle in the hallway earlier.

“I shall look after you,” Jon offered, reaching forward and pulling the thirteen-year-old into a hug. And Damian found himself falling into it without any resistance. They were safe from prying eyes out on the grounds. Ser Kyle was trusted, and his mother would never come this far out. Jon cared. And Damian was just so tired of standing strong for those around him. He was so tired of being weighed down by so many expectations. It was almost easy to just slump into Jon’s embrace and let his forehead fall against the man’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you.” And Damian trusted him to do just that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Your Highness?” A knock came on the open door, a guard sticking his head into the room and seeking out Damian. It took everything within him not to sigh at the sight of the man. He had been with his mother all morning and was finally able to just relax and breathe. It was all he wanted. Some peace before he went searching for Jon to spend some time with the other teen. “His Majesty asked me to retrieve you for the Council meeting.”

Damian frowned, “I wasn’t aware there was one?”

“It’s an emergency meeting. I do not know more than that, I’m sorry.” But it was enough. Nodding, he pushed himself up out of the chair and tried to shake off the exhaustion. He could do this, whatever his father had called the Council together for, he could handle. Then he would take a few moments to himself before he sought out Jon.

Following the guard down the hallway, Damian glanced around and noticed Ser Kyle was missing. “Where is my guard?” He asked curiously. The guard leading him said nothing as they rounded the corner and simply pointed to the small gathering of the main guards of the family. “Ser Kyle, Ser Victor, Ser Roy…what is going on?” He questioned when they got closer. The three men turned away from the other three guards there and gave a bow to him.

“Your father asked Ser Victor to gather us along with the Council,” Ser Kyle explained. “I see he summoned you for this as well.” Nodding his head, Damian glanced over the guards before heading into the hall. He found the majority of the councilmembers already seated, but a few were gathered at the head of the table talking to his father.

“This is most unregular,” he heard one of them say before he was noticed by his father.

“Good, Damian. Everyone, please take your seats. Son, you are to sit at the head today. I am excusing myself from the proceedings.” There were a few called protests that were shot down the moment his father looked their way, guiding Damian to sit in the seat reserved for the king. His father then pulled out the chair to the left, the one Damian usually sat in. “Ser Victor, please bring in all but Ser Garth. I would like him on that side of the door. You may fill him in after. Ser Kyle, you stand on this side of the doors. Thank you.”

There was some shuffling as the guards took their places and Ser Victor made his way to stand behind the chair the king stood in front of. Everything about the situation was irregular and Damian couldn’t shake the feeling that something life changing was about to happen.

“Now, I have gathered you here in an emergency capacity because I had something brought to my attention this morning and Ser Victor is here as a witness to the event.” His father then began to tell the story of Madame Xanadu, the healer most knew from the city. Damian had heard great things about her from some of the citizens. He listened to his father tell how a woman attempting to disguise herself approached her for a curse that would spite a man who had scorned her. He didn’t go into details about the curse or what the healer had done. But he did tell of the knowledge the healer had of the woman’s actions against the Slayer they had just finished celebrating.

Looking away from his father, Damian sought out Ser Kyle and found the man looking right at him. That was all Damian needed to see in order to know he was thinking about the same event. A guard in Ah Ghul garb and his mother in her commoner cloaks.

“What is it you are asking to do, Your Majesty?” One of the councilmembers asked once his father had finished telling them what had been relayed to him. “Are we to put the Queen on trial for killing Ser Jason? With only the word of one healer?”

“Do we have any other proof? Anything else that could possibly be suspicious?”

A solid nod from Ser Kyle was all Damian needed to know he had to say something. “I have something. Perhaps more than one something,” he stated, looking over at his father. He watched the man’s brows pull together and a frown tug at the corners of his lips. “A suspicious something, at least. A few weeks ago, I spotted Mother rushing out of the grounds while wearing clothing of the citizens. Ser Kyle and I followed her deeper into the city and observed her in conversation with a man dressed in the robes of an Ah Ghul guard.”

The shocked murmurs and whispers from the councilmembers were not surprising. His father’s face going blank said so much more. And Damian hated it. The man was not happy that Damian had not told him about this.

“Did you hear what was said?” Damian’s attention was pulled away from his father to the woman who questioned him.

“Just a few things,” he admitted, sending a guilty look toward Ser Kyle who looked surprised. “We were up above on a rooftop and Ser Kyle does not speak Arabic, but I heard ‘you owe him much’, ‘Ra’s does not offer this lightly.’ Your son will bow to him’, and ‘I will hold my end of the bargain. Or my life is forfeit.’.” He let the words settle over the members and looked back to his father. “I do not know more than that. Other than if you could search her rooms? Many times in my lessons, she would be pacing while reading letters that appeared to be written in the same language of Nanda Parbat.”

He father said nothing as he turned to look at Ser Victor. Damian saw the guard nod before he turned and went to speak to the other guards standing off to the side.

“I am calling for the arrest of Her Majesty. She will stand trial and Madame Xanadu has said she will testify. My Son,” his father looked down at Damian and clenched his jaw for a moment, seemingly gathering himself. “Will you tell the story again before the courts?” Will you condemn your mother? That was the unspoken question. His father didn’t want him to have to be used against the woman who was supposed to love him unconditionally, but she had never been that person. Ser Jason had been.

“I will.”

“My King,” Ser Kyle called out, stepping away from his post hesitantly. “Perhaps I might stand in his place?”

“Oh,” his father paused to consider this before nodding. “Yes, yes that would be acceptable. If we need more, I will call upon you Son.” Damian frowned at being left out but nodded. It would probably be better this way.

“Prince Damian, will you make the official order? As the King has removed himself from that position today, it falls upon you.” Damian saw his father sit down as the councilmember spoke and Damian slowly stood to his feet. Swallowing hard, he tried to steel himself.

“Ser Victor, under order of The Crown and Council, arrest Her Majesty Queen Catalina of House Wayne for her part in the death of Ser Jason Todd.” The head guard placed a hand over his heart and gave a stiff bow before calling an order to the other guards. Damian waited for them to clear out of the room before he dropped back down into his seat and looked back to his father.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had remained in the back of the room while his mother had faced her trial. His father had told him he could skip the entire event, but Damian had said he owed it to Ser Jason to be there. He owed it to the man who had been his father more than she had been his mother.

And he couldn’t shake the guilt that if maybe he had told his father about what he and Ser Kyle had seen, they might have avoided losing Ser Jason.

But his father had shot that thought down quickly. That it wouldn’t have been near enough to put her on trial. It would have only caused her to change her tactics. But because he had remained silent, they had gathered enough intel from Madame Xanadu, the observations of Damian, and the letters hidden away in the Queen’s study that Damian had seen her reading before.

It had been enough.

“We sentence Catalina of House Flores to death for the crime of conspiracy to kill Ser Jason Todd and treason to The Crown.” The words were cold and Damian flinched at the sound of the gavel hitting the table, but he did not feel more than that. He could not bring himself to feel anything as his mother was sentenced to death. He was about to lose his second parent in less than a month and yet he could not feel anything.

“Damian?” He glanced over to find Duke Kon standing beside his bench with a worried look. Standing, Damian moved over to the man and glanced back at the space where his mother was fighting the guards assigned to take her back to the dungeons. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted, looking back to the man. “I don’t know what I feel. I don’t know if I should mourn her or hate her. She stole him from us but she was still my mother.” The Duke nodded sadly before wrapping an arm around his shoulders, leading him out of the room before the crowds watching the trial left. The judges still had to tell how the former queen would be executed and Damian didn’t need to be there for that.

He kept Duke Kon guide him out of the hall and down the steps into the streets. There were citizens waiting to see what the outcome of the trial would be, but none of them would approach him. None of them would ask a son if his mother was to be put to death or not. And that was really the only question that had to be answered. Everyone knew the queen would no longer be a queen after the trial, but whether or not her actions warranted execution or exile had been in question.

They had made it back to the carriages when a man rushed out of the hall and exclaimed, “Execution!”, leading the crowd to cheer in a deafening manner. Damian was glad to be inside the carriage when the joy was exclaimed by those waiting outside. He was glad Duke Kon had gotten him away from that before he was caught in it.

“Did Father ask you to do this?” He asked, curious about the timing.

“No, I had a feeling what the outcome would be. You did not need to deal with that on top of everything else.” The man smiled at him from the seat across from him and Damian sighed. “I know justice is being served, but you are still her child. You still deserve to be protected. Son of the fallen queen or not.”

“Thank you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The dungeons were quiet when he entered them with the tray of food in hand. He had begged Ser Kyle to allow him to do this and though the guard had voiced his objections quite loudly, he had relented. He had even come up with the plan to have him replace the guard at the door so Damian could speak to his mother for a few moments in peace. Or as peace as it could be considering Ser Kyle made it clear he would be within earshot.

“I was wondering if you’d find your way down here,” the familiar, cold voice sounded. Damian didn’t reply as he set the tray of food into the slot of the bars and stepped back. He took a moment to look at the proud woman before him. It had been a week since her trial and the following day would be her execution. And despite the impending death, she still managed to look as though nothing could touch her.

At least not mentally.

Physically was a different story. Dirt caked her hair and the gown she wore. The same gown she had been wearing at her trial. He knew they would clean her up in the morning before taking her to the square, but right then she looked like the scum the kingdom thought (and knew) her to be.

“So why have you come, My Son? Why have you brought me my final meal? What have you to say to your poor mother?” Her tone was cruel, her eyes angry, but they didn’t touch him. He wouldn’t let them. She was a monster. She had stolen a father from him, and he would never forgive her for that. “What? Nothing to say? Don’t tell me you didn’t come down here just to look at me?”

“Did you ever love me?”

The woman scoffed as she stood from her bed in the corner and sauntered forward. She grabbed the tray of food and walked back over to take a seat, not bothering to say anything as she did. But the look in her eyes said enough.

“Did you ever love Father?” That got a reaction.

“I would have given him everything if he had loved me!” Her voice was a growl, almost feral and it made Damian take a step back. “I gave him everything! I gave him my life, my body, you! And he gave that…that…man everything he should have given to me! And now he will live the rest of his life miserable and alone. And when he dies, he will cement that loneliness for the rest of his lives.”

Damian knew she was referencing the curse his father had mentioned Madame Xanadu had done for her. Whatever the curse was, he knew his father would never say. He would eventually have to go to the source of it.

“But you would have given me to Nanda Parbat?” He questioned, wanting to know what had been promised to the king of her home country. His mother rolled her eyes and leaned back against the wall as she took a bite of bread.

“Ra’s was a pawn. His rule is coming to an end and he is about to be overthrown.” That was curious. He hadn’t heard of any unrest in the kingdom, but he would file it away for his father later. Once this was over, he would make sure to mention it. “But you were my greatest piece. I had you primed to be my puppet once you took the throne at 25. I had your wife picked out. A meek no one from a small, desperate kingdom who we could overthrow if they turned us down. I had it all planned out. And then when our power was great enough,” she shrugged and smiled lazily at him, “who knows?”

And Damian felt his blood run cold. The words were unspoken, but he heard them loud and clear. She would have found a way to take the throne from him for herself. And though the thought that she could do that to her own child was terrible, he knew it never would have happened. A kingdom like Gotham would never have fallen like that. The citizens would never have allowed it.

“We remain in our throne because they allow us to. Never underestimate the power of a kingdom’s citizens. We work for them. Everything we do is for them. And if they do not like what we do, then they will take back the throne and give it to someone more worthy,” his father had told him when they had walked the streets one day. It was what set their kingdom apart from so many others. Their people had power.

“I die tomorrow with the satisfaction that your father will never have the happiness he seeks. That will be enough for me,” his mother broke through his thoughts. And Damian knew he had heard enough. Shaking his head, he turned and walked away from her cell toward the door where Ser Kyle was watching the exchange with sad eyes. “I will always be with you, My Son. You will never be rid of my lessons, no matter how hard you try. You are a Flores as much as a Wayne.” He ignored his mother’s calls as he reached his guard and waited for the man to open the door so he could leave.

He didn’t need to tell her that he was far more Todd than he was Flores.

It was enough that he knew it to be true.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The knock on his door was loud in the quiet of his room, but he didn’t have the energy to see who was there. Instead he remained on his back, star fished on his bed, waiting to see if the person would enter any way or just leave. When a few beats passed and nothing happened, Damian assumed they had gone and allowed his eyes to slip shut again.

Until he heard the door being pushed open.

“Dami?” Jon’s voice reached him, hesitation clear. Opening his eyes again, he turned just his head to look at the sixteen-year-old as he stood just inside the room. He held the door in hand, peeking around the wood, ready to leave if it was demanded of him. Damian wasn’t sure if he wanted him to come or go, but whatever Jon saw on his face made the decision for him.

He stepped fully into the room and shut the door behind him before making his way over to the edge of the bed.

Damian just watched him come closer, not saying anything. Not moving a muscle outside of blinking and breathing. Even that felt like work at the moment. And he had no idea why he felt this way. He had no idea why he was grieving a woman who had never loved him the way he had wanted and needed her to. She had admitted to practically hating him when he had visited her before her execution.

But still, here he was heavy with grief.

“Can I do anything?” Jon asked as he sat on the edge of the bed and took one of Damian’s hands in both of his. Could he? Damian had no idea. Not when his own emotions made no sense to him.

So he said nothing and instead rolled onto his side toward Jon and sought comfort in the hands holding his own. He didn’t know if Jon would understand that him just being there was enough, but he hoped the older boy would. He hoped his friend understood that not having to pretend he wasn’t hurting was all that he really needed in that moment. And when Jon said nothing, only shifting to sit more comfortably on the bed, Damian knew he got it.

He couldn’t be sure how long they remained there in the silence but somehow in the time Damian ended up with his head in Jon’s lap, face turned toward his stomach. And that was how his father found them when he knocked and entered the room.

“Oh Jon,” the king paused in mid-entrance, hesitating as he took in the position of the two of them. Damian turn in time to see something painful and soft cross the man’s features, but he wasn’t sure what about the situation causes either emotion. “I was just coming to see if you wanted to join us for tea or if you needed more time.”

Sighing, Damian pushed himself upright and pulled his hand away from the one that was still holding his while the other had been carding through his dark hair. “I suppose I should join.” He looked at Jon before looking back to his father.

“You don’t have to, Damian. I do not expect that of you.” And Damian knew that, but it didn’t mean that his mother’s influence had simply vanished with her death. It would take some time. Maybe not doing this was the first step in the direction of breaking that hold she had over him? He couldn’t be sure. There was so much uncertainty in his life now and he wondered if this was what a boat adrift felt like. “I’ll have your meals sent up here for the remainder of the day,” his father said softly. “Tomorrow you can let the staff know if you would like to return to meals with us or if you need more time. No one would blame you, My Son.”

But it felt wrong all the same.

Jon squeezed his hand in solidarity as Damian considered his father’s offer. After a few beats, Damian nodded and looked at his father. “I shall let them know after I wake and take my breakfast here as usual. Will you have Jon’s sent here as well? I don’t…”

“Of course. I’ll let Timothy and Kon know you are here, Jon,” his father agreed easily, smiling sadly at the two. But Damian could see the happiness under it. Whether it was because Damian had his friend or because he was admitting to needing the support, he wasn’t sure. But he was glad to see some form of happiness on the man after everything. And he was glad to know it was him who had done it. Without any hesitation, his father closed the remaining space and gave Damian a quick hug and pressed a kiss to his temple before heading out of the room.

“Is that okay?” Damian asked Jon, realizing he hadn’t exactly asked if the older teen would stay with him.

“I had no plans of going anywhere,” he said as he moved onto the bed so he could sit with his back to the headboard. With a simple gesture, Damian moved over next to him and placed his head back into Jon’s lap. With one hand still holding onto Damian’s, Jon used the other to go back to sliding through the dark locks of hair. “I am here as long as you need me to be.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Standing back, Damian watched his uncles and Jon as they handed over belongings for the staff to pack away. He watched his grandfather speak with his uncle and Duke Kon turned to address the king. He didn’t know why he was keeping his distance, but he couldn’t bring himself to move any closer right then. He wasn’t ready to say goodbye to his uncle. And he really wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Jon and the comfort the other had provided him just yet.

Almost as if he could read his thoughts, Damian watched his Uncle Timothy excuse himself and make his way over to where Damian currently stood.

“Nephew,” the older man greeted softly. And Damian, not quite trusting his own voice, remained silent and watched his uncle glance over at Jon. The elder teen was speaking animatedly with the king and the duke, something Damian couldn’t quite hear from this distance. “You could come with us? I am sure neither would be upset if we held off for you to pack some things.” Damian glanced over to his uncle before looking at his father.

“I cannot leave him alone right now,” he responded.

“He would tell you it is not your responsibility to look after him.”

Looking at his uncle, Damian shrugged. “Someone needs to. He will not show his pain to anyone else.” And his uncle signed, nodding.

“No, I suppose he will not.”

The silence felt heavy between them as they both turned to look at the others as they spoke. Damian, for all his desire to be near his father and Jon, could not get himself to move still. Jon had promised he would be there as long as Damian needed him to be, yet Damian was not ready to let the other teen go just yet. He wasn’t ready to go back to lonely nights in his room and quiet halls without Jon’s laughter to fill them.

He also didn’t understand why he was feeling so strongly about this.

“Dami!” Jon moved away from his uncle and Damian’s father and grandfather, stopping to stand in front of Damian. His uncle gave him one last hug before he moved away so the two teens could say their goodbyes in peace. “You will come visit soon, right?”

Damian nodded his head, but struggled to say anything in return. He wanted to go with them now, but he hadn’t been lying to his uncle when he had said he couldn’t.

“And you will write?” The question was hesitant, and Damian’s green eyes snapped back into focus at them.

“I promise. I won’t…not this time.” Not when his mother wasn’t there to force him to stop. There was no one else who would something so cruel of him. He knew that now, that what his mother had done was cruel. That her intention had been control and isolation. His father would never. “I will miss having you here.” It was hard to admit, but he felt it needed to be said. And when Jon surged forward to wrap him in a hug, Damian knew it was the right thing to say.

“I will miss you as well,” he whispered. Damian wrapped his arms around Jon’s middle and clung tightly to him, eyes closed and head buried in the crook of his shoulder. “I wish I didn’t have to go, but Father is getting anxious for us to return.” Damian nodded into his shoulder and tightened his arms slightly. He would miss this comfort.

“Jon, we must go,” Duke Kon called out, causing the pair to pull apart. None of the men watching them commented on the wet lashes and cheeks, but all could see it.

Damian looked up at Jon and gave him one last smile. “I will see you soon, Jon. Safe travels.” The older teen nodded before hugging him one last time. Once he released Damian, he was rushing off toward the carriage where his travel companions waited for him. Damian didn’t acknowledge his father as the man stepped up beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He simply leaned into the man’s side and watched the caravan pull away as they gave one last wave.

#jaydick #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #jon kent #jondami #past lives au #anikah writes

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notesofarichlycolorednight · 4 years

Text

it’s taken me a while but here we are!! listened to bloodwater ballad [TUMBLR | SOUNDCLOUD] by @gerrydelano so I’m gonna dive (ha, dive, get it?) into some analysis even tho I haven’t taken a proper English class since AP English Lit in high school and the god complex it gave me has never left (RIP to everyone else, but I’m different). But I do have a degree in Psychology and am a Researcher, so I know how to dissect things (this is probably why the god complex never left lmao)

disclaimer: I have only listened to TMA through one (1), read it ONE time, so if you read something that seems wrong it probably is because my memory is not The Best (the seasons are 40 eps long and 30 mins each, Jonny why) and I’m probably straight-up not remembering or misremembering some aspect or detail about either a character and/or their relationship

(and before you say it, i absolutely CANNOT just go relisten to an ep out of order. my nd brain Will Not Let Me until i have listened thru all 4 seasons, In Order, several times)

ALSO: i speak very definitively here, but it doesn’t mean i’m right abt my analysis

bold and italics are lyrics, regular font is analysis. if there’s a more accessible way to format this, lmk!

analysis under cut

honesty that's what she gave to me mary didn’t hide who she was; eric knew exactly what he was getting himself into

into the water i bleed into the sea sea motif/metaphor to describe how eric viewed his relationship with mary

truthfully even when she lied through her teeth it only meant she trusted me to lay at her feet rationalization from eric: he knows she’s lying, and she probably knows he knows. but she also knows that he won’t do anything about it

oh, heave-ho it's over the edge i sink more of the sea metaphor in pieces in ribbons in tatters i'm thrown into the dark of the drink ribbons and tatters: reminiscent/hint of mary needing a piece of his skint to keep his ghost in the leitner

oh, heave-ho it's over the edge i go blow the man down, he's a jewel for your crown (blow me down) and no one will ever know ”jewel for your crown”: suggestive of how mary used eric like an object. jewel and crown suggests that he was useful to her in an important way, tho, still an object ”no one will ever know”: suggestive that no one else, looking in on their relationship, would even see it for what it truly was, nor would they ever expect mary to throw him away so casually like she did

war, you see is somewhere you go just to bleed the end of a book you can’t read (books you cannot read) a legacy’s greed “book you can’t read”: suggestive of mary’s relationship with leitners ”a legacy’s greed”: commentary of leitner; bc this is eric telling his story tho, this could also be about how mary pulled eric into her plots regarding leitners, and then gerry

distantly, familiar hope came to me that even with blood in our teeth my son stayed asleep ”even with blood in our teeth”: eric knows what role he had to play in all this and is not absolving himself of blame ”my son stayed asleep”: often sleeping can be used as a metaphor for ignorance. in this case, eric is hoping that, despite what gerry’s mother is and what eric has been complicit in, will not affect his son i think it’s interesting to note here that the backup voices cut out for “my son stayed asleep” (put a pin in it)

oh, heave-ho the ship is my body, i gave to my wife as the captain, the whip, and the brine, the shark lurking under the waves more of the sea metaphor; also a metaphor for how complicit eric was to mary’s will i think it’s super interesting that she’s the captain, whip, brine, and shark in this metaphor. all things that can hurt eric, as the ship. suggests that mary is in complete control of eric (as the captain). also adds to the notion that eric knew exactly who mary was and still loved her anyway (”i gave”).

oh, heave-ho the ship is my body, she cracks the mast of my spine, spills my blood as her wine (lightning strikes and) i really like this line bc it makes me think of the marriage lines in corpse bride: “your cup will never empty, for i will be your wine.” and i love that it’s turned on its head here. cuts a flag from the skin off my back (takes all the skin off my back) a direct callback to the fact that mary has to take strips of eric’s skin to keep his ghost in the leitner book, while also staying with the metaphor that eric is a ship out at sea

way, ay, i wanted to say though blinded i still saw the light at the end of the hall, in a crib with his eyes almost grayer than mine in the night direct callback to eric blinding himself, twice! also represents how much he loves his son: “light of my life” is a common saying and gerry was that for eric

i gave up the sight of his face for his life and i would have lost more for the same i'd cut out my heart to save his from her bite and i almost don't know who to blame again, direct callback to him blinding himself so he could escape the institute a demonstration of how much love he holds for his son, willing to give up more and more of himself if it meant keeping his son safe heart motif! both for eric and gerry i really like the last line here bc he’s saying he doesn’t know who to blame for his blindness (aka cutting out his heart): himself or mary. bc, as i’ve stated before, eric knows who mary is. and he still loves her. still had a child with her. i also think it’s foreshadowing. and the reason i say this is bc, in the end, eric was unable to save gerry from mary. this song is representative of his statement to gertrude, so at this point, he’s a ghost. tho he may not know exactly what mary has done, he knows who she is enough to know that after he died, mary would raise gerry in her likeness, with her ideals

is it a murder if i made my bed by her side when i knew what she was? and here we have eric, most nearly explicitly, stating that he knew mary’s true colors. and loved her anyway. perhaps i'm complicit; i fell asleep first in the bloodcutting comfort of jaws this also solidifies his stance that he should shoulder some of the blame for allowing himself to love her when he knew what a truly terrible and deadly (literally) person she was ”bloodcutting comfort of jaws” is also really nice alliteration

forgive me, forgive me, i did try to swim with my hands and feet bound to my heart heart motif! okay so this one has so many layers for me: so, for all intents and purposes here, eric has effectively cut out his heart, which his hands and feet are bound to, and is now in the jaws of a shark (mary), who is dragging him down to kill him. he tried to save his son by getting away from the institute by blinding himself but it didn’t work weighted and anchored with love for my son who by birthright deserves more than scars legit, this confused me for a bit bc i always saw “with my hands and feet bound to my heart” as the anchor that pulled him down, as you’d weigh someone down with big rocks if you wanted them to drown. however, in the context of tma, i realized anchor could also mean the way martin is jon’s anchor. eric’s love for gerry was his reason--the person who he kept fighting for as best he could

additional note: these 4 verses are all sung without backup voices. i think it’s interesting that the lyrics/verses that revolve around wanting to save his son, and that are about his son, are sung with his singular voice. i wish i could articulate more what that means, but despite my best efforts, i’m not musically inclined even tho i’ll kinda be talking abt music composition for firesorrow girl lmao. link at the end

my eulogy the carpet red under my feet like standing on top of the sea (standing on the sea) the frenzy beneath don’t ask me why but i really like how this last part of the song starts with “my eulogy” bc you can tell the song is coming to a close now by that lyric. what’s really nice is i can “picture” eric closing his statement with gertrude with the request that she finds his son more sea and shark metaphors

infamy how do you remember me? that fool just so desperate to leave that he couldn't see? i also really loved these lines bc eric most likely knows how gertrude thought of him, and can probably sense how she feels of him now, after his story then i love how “couldn’t see” has a double-meaning here: 1) of course, he blinded himself but, 2) that he was also metaphorically blind to what kind of consequences his actions had, both on him and his son

oh, heave-ho a dead man has only one tale listen,,, i know i keep saying this, but i love how ron turns turn-of-phrases on their heads. bc “dead men tell no tales” right? eric has one tale, tho: his statement bc he’s a ghost who’s been bound this book and kept, for all intents and purpose, alive i knew she had hunger for blood in the water and that means it was no betrayal again, confirmation that eric knows that he has to shoulder some of the blame for the consequences of knowing who mary was (this bloodthirsty shark) and still loving her anyway

oh, heave-ho though, i have one request of you now if my son can be found and his own hands unbound (find my son) cut the rope - don't you dare let him drown (don’t you dare be the reason he drowns) so a throwback to “hands and feet bound to my heart” tho perhaps gerry’s heart isn’t what’s dragging him down, necessarily bc he was raised by mary, he didn’t have a choice. the moment he was born, he was tied to her. and the moment mary killed eric, there was no chance he could get away and then, of course, the gut-puncher: “don’t you dare let him drown”/“don’t your dare be the reason he drowns” are especially poignant, given gertrude uses gerry much in the same way mary did. gerry becomes bound to a different entity and is used for gertrude’s gain. so he drowns anyway.

alkjdlf i hope this is semi-coherent. i tried to do it more “professionally”--i even thought abt breaking it up and putting it back together, out of order, to address all the themes and motifs all in one spot--but then decided what would be best for my brain, was to listen to the song and just add my thoughts in as they came, stream of consciousness style *finger guns*

firesorrow girl analysis | meme i made for these analyses bc it’s funny and i wanted to share

#tma #the magnus archives #tma meta #(kinda. alkjldkf idk how to tag thissss)#eric delano #mary keay #gerard keay #chirp.meta

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theritaminute · 5 years

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TEDDY HEWWO WILL YOU WRITE ME A JONMARTIN...... with Jon hiding an injury cuz that trope makes me Weak.... ily so much....

Martin stands watch in the corner, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches the three dumbasses of the Archives sit through another of Basira’s lectures.

Each of them is sporting their own new wounds, and have varying looks of petulance on their faces. Daisy at least looks ashamed, though she’s hiding it behind a scowl, but Jon and Melanie both have a fire in their eyes that says they can’t possibly understand why they are being scolded for going off on another impulsive mission.

“We stopped them,” Melanie mumbles as Basira winds down. She’s favoring the side of her mouth away from the bandage that covers part of her jaw. When Basira gives her a withering look, she sinks in on herself. Helen, perched on the arm and back of the couch in a way that reminds Martin of Tim, runs her fingers through Melanie’s hair comfortingly and gives a wide smile.

“I thought it was a lot of fun, honestly.”

Basira sighs and presses two fingers to each temple, either willing away a headache or seeing if the Beholding has given her some kind of laser vision. “Have you all been attended to?”

The three stooges mumble back affirmative answers, and Basira waves her hand dismissively, “Then get back to work.”

They all exit, Melanie storms off first, Daisy sticking close to Basira, seeming to try to placate her. Martin hears her soft apologies, hears the tonal shift in Basira’s voice as she says, “You’re hurt worse than Jon. How did you manage?”

He catches her eye as they pass by him to exit and recognizes the emotion in it. It’s one he himself feels all of the time when their coworkers go off to pull stunts like fighting a group of slaughtery avatars by themselves. The feeling of anger, of worry and bone-deep longing to keep these two idiots they are hopelessly pining after safe.

Martin’s own idiot makes a soft noise of discomfort as he shifts on the couch, leaning heavily on one side as he makes his way off of the sofa and towards his desk.

“You really ought to be more careful,” he intones, finding it hard to keep the bitterness out of his voice. Jon had clearly thought he had left with the women, if the way he jumps out of his skin is any indication. Martin derives a small, petty bit of satisfaction at the thought of scaring him half as badly as he was a few hours ago.

“We’re fine,” Jon sticks his nose up petulantly, shoving his glasses up with a clumsy motion, “We’re always fine. I don’t know why you two are always so overbearing, because we a-”

“Overbearing?” Martin practically squeaks back, “You think we’re being overbearing because the three of you seem to think yourselves invincible? You’re not, Jon, and just because you haven’t died yet doesn’t mean you never will. Do not roll your eyes at me you stuck up little man, I’m-”

During his rant Jon has turned his back on Martin and started to hobble away again, but cuts off the speech with a sharp little yelp of pain when Martin grabs his shoulder to turn him back around. He pulls his hands back immediately, feeling the noise deep in his stomach, twisting into guilt. It’s then he notices the way Jon is holding onto his side with both hands, the patch of his brown sweater that is just slightly darker than the rest.

“Jon, are you still hurt? What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he insists, sinking into his armchair and lifting his shirt up to look at it. He quickly pulls it back down when it’s clear that the jagged cut is not nothing. “I was lightly stabbed in the attack. I can take care of it.”

“You were stabbed?” Martin repeats, grabbing the bandages off the side table once again and rushing to kneel in front of him.

“Lightly,” Jon insists, but the hiss in his breath when Martin pulls his shirts out of the way to get a better look tells a different story.

Working in the archives for so long had made Martin quite a bit paranoid, so corkscrew-worm-removers and hidden cans of CO2 were not the only things he has armed himself with. Jon is lucky he’s learned how to stitch someone closed, lucky he went so far as to take a real course to get certified in first aid, and lucky the instructor found him handsome enough to go a bit above and beyond in showing him how to take care of bastard Archivists with a penchant for getting themselves nearly killed.

Jon gripes the entire time, covering up his pain and discomfort with bitter little snipes about how it’s not even really that bad. As Martin is moving on to bandaging the cut, he asks, “Why didn’t you bring this up when we were taking care of you all. This needed more attention than the cut on your cheek.”

Without thinking, Martin reaches a hand up to run his thumb along the butterfly bandage over the minor cut, and is surprised to see Jon’s eyes widen ever so slightly, to see him suppress a shiver. He pulls his hand back and refocuses his efforts on the man’s stomach, trying to ignore the shake in Jon’s voice as he answers, “The other two had more serious things that needed tending to. By the time they were finished, it was… well, it felt awkward, to bring it up after such a long time.”

Martin pauses in his work to meet Jon’s eyes, incredulous. “You didn’t say anything about a serious injury because you would have felt weird about it?”

Jon crosses his arms over his chest and petulantly begins to stammer through an explanation, but at that point Martin is laughing too hard to listen to anything he is saying. He buries his laughter in one hand and looks up to apologize, only to find Jon looking back at him with eyes so soft and fond that the words die on his lips.

“Next time,” Martin clears his throat, grin still shining in his eyes and pulling at one corner of his mouth, “Tell me when you’re hurt. I’ll try not to make it awkward. Okay?”

Jon rolls his eyes, but there is a little smile on his face, and he nods once, so Martin tapes the bandage up and pats it once, lightly.

If you ask him later, he won’t be able to tell you what’s come over him when he leans forward and kisses over the bandage. There aren’t any untoward intentions about it, he is just overwhelmed with the urge to do it, and doesn’t see until afterward why there might be anything wrong with it. Then he leans back, the gears in his mind click together, and he shoots up, nearly knocking his head into Jon’s in his rush to stand up and back away.

“Sorry, that wasn’t- I mean, it’s to help it heal faster? That’s what mothers do, right? Not that I’m your mother, or that either of us would know, I just-”

There’s a steadying hand on his arm and a red-faced Jon in front of him in a moment, cutting him off with soft, unsure eyes and a quiet, “It’s okay, Martin.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles once more, for good measure, avoiding Jon’s warm brown eyes. It’s nearly impossible to do with the other man holding him in place by both arms, but if he stares forward he can see over the top of Jon’s head, to the board of avatar sightings and evidence on the wall behind him.

“I’m...” Jon takes a shaking breath, is quiet for a moment, and soldiers on, “It’s to help it feel better, right? It’s alright, Martin.” There’s a beat of silence that must last a hundred years. Maybe there is another, secret fear that they have yet to uncover, and Martin has just become the first avatar of mortification. “If I’m being honest, my cheek still kind of stings.”

Martin’s eyes snap back to Jon’s face, but this time, he’s the one doing the avoiding. They won’t get anywhere like this, though, so Martin gently cups the other cheek and guides his face up. “Yeah?” He searches Jon’s eyes for answers, or permission, or something he isn’t sure what. He finds it when Jon sniffles once and nods again. With that, Martin leans down and gently kisses the apple of Jon’s cheek, leaning back slightly to search his eyes once more. He finds them closed, but before he can do anything else, Jon is hauling himself onto his tiptoes, hands clutching the flannel at Martin’s hips, and he doesn’t have time to think before Jon presses their lips together.

It’s gentle, and chaste, and connects a thousand dots that Martin didn’t know he needed to connect. He’s giddy and breathless and at once filled with a sense of calm understanding. He pulls back after a long moment, brushes his thumb over Jon’s cheek and watches him lean into the touch. “This doesn’t mean you’re allowed to go off gallivanting and getting yourself hurt all of the time.”

Jon groans in irritation - the bitter little man he knows is back in full force - and yanks Martin back down to meet him again.

(i take requests!)

#babyneedsnack #ellie i love u so much wld u like my life #jonmartin #tma #fics #DID IT GET OOC AT THE END. YOU DECIDE..

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let-me-love-you-loki · 4 years

Text

An Ending Within-Ch. 13

Chapter 13

“Are you sure about this?” Tony Kahn asked. He sat across the table in the conference room at Daily’s Place. Kenny and Jon were there too. Neither of them looked phased at having a sit down with the owner of the company, but I was a nervous wreck.

“What do you mean?” I asked, upset at how quiet my voice was.

A thought. A terrible thought. Nausea slammed my stomach. I fought hard to stave off the vertigo.

“Are you… are you firing me?”

“No!” Kenny and Tony said together. Both of them seemed surprised that I’d even come up with an idea like that.

Jon tucked his arm around my back and watched the other two with wariness.

“You’ve had a rough start,” Tony said calmly. “Of course, we knew about your leg when we signed you. We just want to make sure that you’re comfortable with the direction we want to go with you.”

I felt my brow lift. “And that is?”

Kenny leaned forward, propping his elbows on the edge of the table. “You are one of the biggest draws we’ve got in our women’s division. We want to put you in contention for the title.”

“I can’t take on Nyla. Seriously. I’m good, but with my leg… I can’t handle a lot of the moves she does.”

“That’s why she’s about to lose the title.” Tony leaned back. “At Double or Nothing, she’s going to lose to Shida. Then Shida is going to go straight into a feud with Penelope Ford.”

I looked between the two of them, not quite sure what to think. “But then where does that leave me? How does that get me into the title picture?”

Jon grinned. “They’re going to Flair you, dollface.”

“No. I’m not getting Flaired.” It was clear that neither Kenny nor Tony were familiar with the term. I rolled my eyes. “If you want me in the title picture, book me good matches. Let me earn my standing. Don’t just shove me in a match just because I’m a draw.”

Tony smiled. “That’s the woman we signed. So how long do you want to hang around with Inner Circle?”

***

“Hey,” Seth said as he slipped his arms around my waist. He settled his chin against my shoulder and pressed a kiss to the side of my neck. “What would you say to a night out, just the two of us?”

I grinned, shaking the water off my hands in the sink. “And who, pray tell, is going to take care of Sefina?”

“Mom’s already on board. She’s just waiting for the word.” He took a step back as I turned in his arms. “We already spend so much time apart. Let’s have some time together.”

Seth looked at me with those dark doe eyes and pouted just a little. He stuck out his bottom lip. I couldn’t help but giggle. Cradling his face in my hands, I smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”

He grinned, showing off the little gap between his front teeth. “Where do you want to go?”

A memory. Twinkling lights in the valley below. The scent of Chinese food and the feel of blankets in the back of an old SUV.

“Remember our first date?” I asked sweetly.

A look of nostalgia came over him. He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “What, you want to have bad takeout in the cargo space of a truck?”

I smiled. “I think so.”

Seth laughed, and it reminded me of the first time I’d met him, back when I’d been brought up from NXT and paired with Jon. It wasn’t a sure thing that it was going to last, but Stephanie and Hunter saw the chemistry we had. After our second match together, Stephanie pulled us aside and gave us the news—I was being put with the Hounds permanently. Then she’d taken me to meet the others.

Roman smiled and hugged me like we’d known each other forever. He was kind and made me feel like I was a little sister that he would protect. Jon was like my best friend already, but meeting Roman had given me someone else to rely on in the business. But Seth… there was something different about him from the beginning. He’d thrown his arm around my neck, pulled me in close, and put a kiss on the top of my head. Then he’d laughed and grinned, showing off that gap between his teeth.

I’d started falling in love with him because of that laugh, that grin, and the feeling of warmth it gave me.

“Yes,” I said after a moment, lost in the memory of that first time. “Let’s have bad takeout in the cargo space of a truck.”

***

This time, there wasn’t a valley spread out below us. Instead, it was the swirling flow of the Mississippi slipping by. Seth had backed our CR-V into a space on the river front. The back seats folded down and he filled the cargo space with blankets and pillows.

“It doesn’t feel like four years, does it?” I asked, sitting cross-legged against the side of the car. A tray of General Tso’s sat in my lap, chopsticks in my hand.

Seth smiled. “No,” he replied. “Feels like it did that first night.”

I grinned. “Remember the night you and Ro got into a fight in the locker room?”

“The way I remember it, it wasn’t really a fight. It was more Roman shoving me against the wall and threatening to send me back to Iowa in a body bag.” Seth chuckled and leaned back, stretching his legs out in front of him. We faced each other from opposite sides of the cargo space.

Laughter filled the space between us. “Roman was so protective.”

Seth let his leg dangle over the edge of the tailgate. “He still is, Llane. You have no idea.”

Sadness. Nostalgia. A thousand memories of moments on the road and in the ring. The first time I fell from the ring post into the cradle Seth and Jon made for me. Coming through the crowd with the Raw championship on my shoulder. Riding late in the night, asleep in the backseat of the SUV, wrapped in Seth’s hoodie, my head pillowed on his thigh.

“Did I make the right choice?” I asked suddenly. The memories of my time with the Hounds played through my mind. I tried desperately not to cry.

Seth leaned forward, taking my hand in his and squeezing. “You made the choice that was right for you. And none of us are upset at you for that. Besides,” he sighed, “who knows where you would be now? With Jon gone, the Shield was over for good.”

“I miss being with you guys. I miss sharing a locker room and the SUV and eating crappy food at three in the morning.” I sighed.

He drew me close and kissed my forehead. “Who knows, someday, we might get to do all that again. But right now… you have to do what you have to do. And that’s with Jon and AEW. But promise me something, Llane.”

I licked my lips nervously. Took a deep breath. Felt the ache in my chest relax just a little. “What?”

A grin spread over his face. “Fight like hell to get back to Jon. And when you do… burn through that whole roster. Take over. Run that place like only you and Jon can.”

***

“It’s a deal,” I said, standing at the door of Tony Kahn’s office. “But I have a few conditions.”

He leaned back in his chair and his lips curved up in a grin. He waved his hand, gesturing me fully into the room. “Let’s have a talk, then.”

“No offense, but I’m not doing this without Omega. And none of this gets back to Jon before we pull the trigger.”

Tony nodded, his grin getting bigger. “I knew I liked you for a reason, Black.”

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

agony quiets to pain

Words: 2.1k Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Gerry Keay Tags: AU - Pre-Canon, AU - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Tenderness, Burns Warnings: burns, aftermath of hospitalization, implied abuse/neglect, self-depreciation

Ao3 link in source!

Gerry aches. Which is a step up from total agony at least, but still, not pleasant. And then of course there’s the bandages, still covering nearly every inch of his body and hiding the mess that lies beneath.

(Permanent scarring, the doctor had said with a plastered-on expression of sympathy. We’re very sorry. There’s nothing we can do.)

It’s fine. He’ll be fine. He always is, isn’t he?

And to top it all off, he’s lost the book—the Leitner he’d been sent to fetch. He fully expects to step out of the hospital doors to see cool blue eyes staring back at him, hard with disappointment despite the benign expression on her face and accompanied by a casual, “Let’s go home now, Gerard,” that he would recognize for the threat it is.

Instead, he sees a man, thin and tired-looking, sat atop the short wall outside the hospital doors with a lit cigarette held between two fingers and a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck to chase away the late December chill. And Gerry realizes that the nurse never said exactly who he was being released to. The relief that overcomes him is dizzying, and he barely registers the nurse handing him his discharge papers before disappearing back into the hospital.

“Jon?” Gerry says, his voice cracking a bit around the words (though he tells himself it’s just from the lingering effects of the book, filling his lungs with smoke).

Jon looks up. When his eyes land on Gerry, he quickly snubs his cigarette out on the wall next to him, stands, and takes quick steps toward Gerry. He looks, for a moment, like he’s going to wrap Gerry in a hug before thinking better of it and simply fluttering his hands aimlessly in the air for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. Gerry’s disappointed and grateful in equal measure; given that his skin is still raw and sensitive, he doesn’t think a hug would feel pleasant. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t ache for one anyway.

“Are you okay?” Jon says, then shakes his head before the words have even finished leaving his mouth. “Right, no, of- of course you’re not. What I mean is.” Jon pauses, as if considering, before saying softly, “Are you all right?”

It’s the same question, technically. But Gerry knows it’s not. And so he decides to answer honestly.

“Not really.” Gerry rubs his left thumb over one of the tattoos on his right knuckles, the motion a habit born of nerves and anxieties. The skin there is smooth and unblemished. Funny, that. “All this, and I didn’t even get the book.”

“Oh,” Jon says quietly. There’s a sadness there that Gerry doesn’t want to look too closely at. Mostly because it’ll look too much like pity, and he doesn’t think he can handle that right now.

A sharp wind cuts through Gerry’s clothes, making him shiver and then wince as the sensation sends pain skittering across his skin. The unhappy expression on Jon’s face is erased in an instant, replaced by concern and determination. “Here, let’s- let’s go home, and we can figure everything else out after that. Okay?”

Figure it out. As if Mary Keay could be placated so easily. Still, Gerry nods, and he follows Jon to his car, twinges of agony pulsing up his legs with each step that he tries to hide. Given Jon’s grim expression as he helps Gerry into the car the best he can without touching Gerry’s skin too much, he doesn’t quite succeed.

The car used to be Jon’s grandmother’s, out of style by a decade or so with roll-up windows and a lingering cigarette smell that no amount of air fresheners seem to eliminate. Gerry leans his head back against the seat and breathes it in. It’s not something you’d bottle up and sell as perfume, but compared to the sterile antiseptic smell of A&E, it’s heavenly. Jon starts the car, looks over at Gerry once like he’s making sure he’s still there, and begins to drive. His hands shake ever so slightly on the steering wheel. Gerry pretends not to notice.

Gerry isn’t surprised when Jon takes them to his flat. Of course he isn’t, Jon’s the one who picked him up, so logically they’d go back to his place. Still, Gerry can’t help the rush of dizzying relief that sweeps through him when they arrive, like he’d still expected to be faced with rusty red brick and a weathered wooden sign that seemed to laugh at him with every creak of its hinges.

“Thank you,” Gerry says. He doesn’t bother to hide the way the tightness in his throat chokes off the words.

Jon’s quiet for a moment. Gerry can almost hear it—echoes of a conversation oft-repeated, useless and fantastical and irritating only because Gerry knows that Jon is right. I wish you wouldn’t go back, Jon would say. And Gerry would say, I know. And sometimes it would continue, if Jon were feeling particularly incensed at the moment. Sometimes it wouldn’t. Gerry almost hates that more, if only because of the expression that would come across Jon’s face, something profoundly sad and weary and, underneath it all, hurt.

It’s almost enough to convince him.

Almost.

“Yeah,” Jon says, his hands tightening on the wheel for a moment before going slack. He removes the key and fiddles with it absently. “You know I…” Jon trails off, worries his bottom lip between his teeth, then says abruptly, “Well. No use just sitting here, I suppose.”

It’s clipped, a bit brusque. Rude, if Gerry didn’t know better. But he does, and so his mouth settles into a small smile as he follows Jon into his flat, despite the burning, chafing sensation on his skin as his bandages shift as he walks.

God, he feels like shit.

As soon as they’re inside, Jon insists that Gerry sits on the couch, and Gerry goes without complaint, his aching body screaming in relief as he sinks down onto the cushions and finally takes weight off the soles of his feet, which did not come out of the experience unscathed. There’s clattering from the kitchen, a few muttered curses, and before too long Jon’s in front of him with a glass of water with a straw in it and a bowl of what looks like hastily reheated curry. He hesitates a moment before saying, “Can you… hold things?”

Gerry flexes his fingers experimentally. His hands got the best of it, given the myriad of tattoos across the joints of his fingers. Still, the entirety of his palm and the pads of his fingers are red and inflamed, and though they’re no longer bandaged, the needles of pain that shoot through him at the motion draw a small gasp from his lips despite his best efforts to keep it contained. Jon’s forehead sets into a firm line at that, like he’s considering something, before nodding once. “Right.”

He sets the dishes on the floor, disappears back into the kitchen for a moment, and reemerges carrying one of the wooden chairs from his kitchen table. He looks a bit winded when he sets it down in front of Gerry, which might be amusing in any other circumstance, but Gerry’s too busy wondering what the hell he’s doing.

Then, Jon retrieves the dishes, sits in the chair, and holds the glass of water in front of him stiffly. And Gerry realizes, all at once, what’s happening.

“Is this where I’m supposed to say ‘ah’?” Gerry says, because joking about it is preferable to protesting or staring at Jon in shock or—god forbid—getting flustered.

Jon seems to appreciate it because the tension in his arms dissipates ever so slightly, and he says primly, “If you’d prefer. Though I really don’t see how that will aid in the process.”

“Prick,” Gerry says, not without fondness. And it’s only a little awkward when he leans forward and, while Jon holds the glass, drinks. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was until that moment, and he should probably be a bit embarrassed by how quickly he empties the glass, but he can’t quite bring himself to care when he sees the little pleased expression on Jon’s face. The affection that accompanies it, however slight, is enough to squeeze at Gerry’s chest until he finds it hard to breathe, and he clears his throat slightly to relieve the pressure.

The curry comes next, and it’s significantly more awkward to have Jon spoon-feeding him chicken and red bell peppers with careful precision so as to avoid any spillage. But Jon talks during it, which helps. It’s mundane things, like the case Jon’s currently working on at the Institute and what he had for lunch that day and the grocery list he’s compiling for the weekend. He transitions after a bit into a discussion of a documentary he watched recently about the origins of humanity, and Gerry gets to sit back and listen to Jon grow increasingly more passionate about bonobos and homo erectus and the unique structure of Neanderthal bones.

It’s nice, to learn about things like this. To learn from Jon. He spent his childhood chasing after cursed books, his mother giving him half-hearted studies in between that she deemed sufficient enough to be considered homeschooling. He’s just lucky he knows basic maths, honestly. But he knows a lot about books. Even if they’re mostly just the spooky kind.

So Jon talks, and Gerry listens. And he tries so very hard not to label the warm feeling in his chest as love, but, well. It’s hard not to fall in love with Jonathan Sims. And he doesn’t particularly want to try to stop it.

Soon the bowl is empty, and Jon holds it awkwardly against his chest for a moment before setting it aside on the floor. He’d stopped in the middle of a discussion about Stone Age tools, and Gerry wants so badly to ask him to continue. But there’s a weariness in him now, the food and water having chased away the gnawing hunger in his stomach and the dryness of his throat and leaving behind only bone-deep exhaustion.

So he doesn’t say anything. Eventually, Jon breaks the silence between them, his words stuttering and jagged, like he hasn’t quite figured out how to smooth them into shape. “I. I don’t really know. Uh. What else can I- can I do? To help. To make things easier.” He pauses, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh, before looking at Gerry with a fragile expression and saying, “I’m sorry, Gerry. I- I should have been there. I shouldn’t have let you go alone.”

“No,” Gerry says firmly. The thought of Jon being like him—wrapped up like a mummy, all agony and raw skin and cracked lines across his body that promise to leave him blotchy and scarred forever—makes him nauseous. Better that it’s him. He can handle it. He always has before. “It’s not your fault. And I don’t want you to blame yourself, okay? I know how you get, so don’t. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Gerry can see the protest written all over Jon’s face, in the way he purses his lips and fixes his eyes firmly at a spot over Gerry’s shoulder. But all Jon says is, “That doesn’t make it better. So please—tell me what I can do.”

There’s a kind of desperation in Jon’s eyes at that, a need to categorize a problem and find the best course of action in order to resolve it. His hands are curled into fists on his lap; Gerry wants so badly to take them in his own, to uncurl Jon’s fingers and thread them with his and squeeze until all the tension’s bled out of Jon’s body. Instead, he says, voice heavy with exhaustion, “I think I’d just like to go to bed. It’s been a long few days.”

Jon lets out a small, humorless laugh at that. “I suppose it has.”

Gerry doesn’t protest when Jon offers him his bed, just offers quiet thanks before making his way relatively painlessly to the bedroom. He considers trying to remove his clothes, then thinks better of it and gingerly climbs onto the bed with them still on.

It’s uncomfortable in every way possible. Gerry falls asleep all the same, the soft sleep well Jon had given him before disappearing back into the living room lingering in his mind until he drifts off into a restless slumber, his dreams filled with burning flesh and a fear he doesn’t think he’ll ever quite shake.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tmagerryweek2021 #jongerry #jonathan sims #gerry keay #my fic #my writing #prompt 2: burn #now that i've done two of these my brain is like 'do the rest! do the rest!' that's the devil talking lol

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 4 years

Text

Illicio 5/?

Part 4

Mild content warning for Gerry having a panic attack

"Right... listen, does your boyfriend know about this?"

Jon, who'd been scowling at his hand for not mutilating adequately, snaps back up to look at her like a deer in the headlights.

"My- w- who?" He stammers out, and Melanie wants to sock him on the nose. Less in a 'bash his head in' and more like when she punches Gerry on the ribs because he keeps trying to look at her phone when she's texting Georgie.

"Please stop finding me."

Martin makes sure no one -a very specific someone, truly- is waiting outside for him, before he walks out to hail a cab. He used to grab the bus back to his flat, but lately the thought of being trapped with all those people sends a pang of nausea right to his stomach.

The driver forgets to charge him when they get to Martin's place, but he still drops enough money to cover the fare on the backseat before climbing out. The man looks back with a start when the door opens and closes, but he doesn't see him. If he somehow did, he will forget it, Martin thinks with relief.

A stream of heavy fog flows out of the flat when he opens the door, and the inside is colder than it ought to be. Martin drops his shoes on the rack by the entrance and watches them get enveloped in the swirling mist with a curious sense of detachment.

There's not much left to eat in the kitchen, but Martin isn't hungry lately. He realizes at times, that the reflections on the windows don't show him moving around the flat like they should. That's... nice. He doesn't want to see himself either.

When he crawls under the covers it's still far too early to sleep, but when he's not conscious he doesn't have to listen to the sounds of the world going on outside his window, and the soft gray dreams are always quick to come.

Martin wakes up an indeterminate amount of time later after a series of rapid clicks by the side of his bed, and he's relieved. He shouldn't be, he knows. The Lonely's taking to him almost naturally, and he should stop fighting it. These are the terms he agreed to, and it guarantees Jon will be safe.

A quick look to the window confirms he's visible again, and he turns to look, knowing very well what he's going to fin, with a tired smile already on his lips.

"Why did I ever think you'd do what you were told for once?" Martin asks the tape recorder whirring away where it's nestled snugly on his pillow. It brings Martin hope, at least the part of him that stubbornly checks for mails and opens his messaging apps and types out texts but can never bring himself to press the send button. "Still, listening to me sleeping is a bit too much, no? There's not even anything to record. Unless I snore. Do I snore?"

A long pause.

Click.

"Hm... Good to know." Martin lifts a hand up to his face, and it seems more solid than it did before he went to sleep. The tapes do help, then. Pity. "I really- I wasn't kidding when I told him I need him to leave me alone... and I think that means you too."

Click. Brrrrr.

"Having you here is a sign he still cares about me. A-a- and I like that! But that's the problem, I shouldn't. Peter's keeping a close eye on him as it is, with this whole pissing contest with Elias. If he knows I still... the people he sends away are also a punishment for me,you know? It's always the ones I talked to last. If you ask me, the message is very clear."

The tape clicks another button sympathetically. Or maybe it just clicks, it's just a tape recorder, for God's sake.

"Is he... well? I saw one of the deliverymen in the surveillance cameras the other day. I figured it was looking for him. Can't have been to easy to see a reminder of something so awful. God knows I still can't stand the taste of canned peaches."

The surveillance cameras are pointed towards the street -why would Elias need cameras to watch someone inside the building?- so Martin had only seen the monster go out and away from view. He'd also seen Melanie and Gerard Keay go after it, so Martin's pretty sure that's done and dealt with.

Martin is still not sure how he feels about Gerard Keay.

He's seen him with Jon a few times, when he's intangible enough that others don't notice him right away. He doesn't... it's not stalking or anything, Martin doesn't follow them home or look into their trash bins, he has just happened to be there when they're there too, and they don't see him because seeing them together tends to make him even more ethereal.

Gerard is always touching Jon, little points of contact here and there that feel almost sacrilegious to Martin, who's always had this idea that Jon is averse to being touched. Maybe because Tim had always been the only one to take that freedom with him, before he stopped wanting to.

The fact that Jon doesn't seem to mind only makes it more irritating.

"It's ridiculous, isn't it?" He tells the tape. The fog's starting to come back, thicker this time. He spares a look to the window, and he still hasn't disappeared, but he can see through his silhouette. "The world is at stake and I'm here being jealous over Jon."

It does make him feel better to know he never really had a chance, if Gerard -who is certainly attractive and flashy and assertive and everything Martin is not- is an indicator of Jon's tastes. But then why does Jon keep trying to get him to come back, and why are the tapes still following him? Is it some sort of mistimed loyalty for the last member of his original team still standing?

"I... I guess it makes sense. I'm doing this for him." Martin runs a hand down his face to wipe away the cold condensation of the fog on his skin. "He has to be safe, it's the only thing that matters and... and if Gerard keeps him safe, then we're sort of working for the same goal, right?"

Click.

"Don't be ridiculous, two people are barely enough to keep Jon out of trouble," he huffs. A loud yawn catches him off guard, and Martin burrows deeper into the covers. It's never warm with the Lonely, but the softness is still comfortable. "I suggest you click off now, unless you want more snoring."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Helen cracks her door open just an inch. Martin's snores are soft, just like everything else about him.

She adds the tape to her collection. It's growing very nicely.

Helen closes her door with a click, and moves it to a loud, busy nightclub with bright yellow doors leading to the loos.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Do you really have to do that in here?" Jon groans when he walks past the open bathroom door and sees Gerry bent over the sink, making an absolute mess of the off-white porcelain.

"Now that you mention it, no," comes Gerry's voice from under the mass of hair, and Jon scrunches his nose at the offending smell of chemicals. "I'll just go dye my hair in the Tube station loos."

Jon rolls his eyes. "There's places that do that for you, Gerry."

"I've done it myself all these years. Why stop now?" Gerry shrugs and goes to spread a glob of black dye over an already soaked lock.

"You're not even-" Jon's hand shoots forward, "-you're not even getting all the roots! One would think after this long you'd at least know how to do it effectively." It's around then that he notices his hand is clamped down on Gerry's wrist, and he freezes. Gerry touches him all the time, but maybe it's not a two way street and-

Gerry shifts a little, and then there's a blue eye looking up at Jon, almost too bright amongst all the black.

"I mean, you could help me." Gerry's voice is still amused, and he takes a half step back to move out from under their joined hands. He then straightens up to full height, splashing a Pollock on the bathroom tiles when his hair whips back. "Or else I'm going to end up making a real mess. You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"I should ask the Eye if there's some sort of... return rec- please don't touch my towels!" Jon groans. "Just get in the tub, alright?"

"I knew you'd come around. There's dye all over your hand by the way, you should be more careful with that." Gerry smirks as he climbs into the bathtub and plops down on one end.

Fixing an undead man's dyejob at four in the morning and then cleaning the entire bathroom afterwards is not exactly how he expected to not sleep tonight, but weirder things have happened, Jon decides.

He sits on the edge of the tub behind Gerry, and begins working the hair into a knot at the top of his head, like Georgie used to do when she did this. Gerard's hair is a bit coarse, probably because of the dye itself. He wonders idly if it would get softer with enough listening to Jon's voice. This texture is not bad anyways, he finds.

"Do you remember Andrea Nunis?" Jon asks as he begins to apply the dye to Gerard's roots. They're a dirty blond color, and it gets swallowed easily enough by the black.

"Uh... who?" Gerry's voice comes after a moment, and Jon can hear the confused frown in it. He disentangles another lock from the top; his grandmother was always a bit too rough with his hair -an old woman out of practice and without the energy needed to be anything other than ruthlessly effective- so he runs his fingers through Gerry's carefully to get rid of the knots. "I'm going to need more context, Jon."

"Eh? Oh." Jon snaps back to reality, and the question he just asked. "The- the woman. In Italy. You saw her in a café, and you told her to think of her-"

"Her mother," Gerry ends the sentence for him. "I remember. It's good to know she made it out."

"Was it... does it have to be a family member? A- a person?" The whole process is almost soothing in it's repetitive motions. Comb, apply, move aside. "Your anchor?"

"Not really." Gerry shrugs. His voice sounds the slightest bit drowsy, and Jon smiles. "Sometimes it's things... or thoughts? I knew a man that walked right out of the Dark because he and his wife had plans for brunch with his in-laws the next morning, and he didn't want to miss out on his father-in-law's quiche."

"... A man defeated the Dark through the power of breakfast food, is what you're saying?" It sounds as unconventional as anything else that has to do with the entities, but Jon is starting to get very tired of nothing making any sense.

"Must've been one hell of a quiche, don't you think?" Gerry's neck is bent at a weird angle as Jon tries to reach the side of his head, so Jon sits back for a second and twists until his legs rest at both sides of the tub, his knees framing Gerry's shoulders. "Why do you want to know?"

Jon has a lie prepared. He's had it for about a week when he read the statement of the man in the flooded house. He's practiced it enough that he can deliver it casually, no matter how bad a liar he is, it should be believable.

"Basira wants to-" Gerry lays his cheek on Jon's knee, and Jon flinches and sputters in surprise, his mind drawing a blank. "Sh- Daisy's in the coffin. The- the Buried, I mean. Daisy- I want to bring her back."

Gerry straightens up immediately at that -Jon has a spare second to wonder why he feels so incredibly aware of the spot on his leg where Gerry's face rested on for less than a second- and turns to look at Jon with narrowed, suspicious eyes.

"What was that?" Gerry asks, voice low and serious enough to make Jon ignore the hastily made bun at the top of his head. "Jon?"

"Basira wants to get Daisy out of the Buried," Jon parrots off his well practiced lie. "I promised her I'd find out more about anchors so she-"

"Basira would have to be incredibly stupid to try that." Gerry's eyes are still narrowed at Jon. "Climbing into the Buried willingly is as good as killing yourself. But you know that already, right?"

Jon clears his throat. "She."

"Of course. She knows that." A drop of half congealed dye is tracing a long line down the wall. Jon follows it with his gaze, until Gerry pinches at his knee. "Jon."

"I'll- I'll let her know," Jon forces out, voice strained. He looks back at Gerry after a moment. His frown has softened, replaced by something that looks more like concern. He used to catch that look on Martin too sometimes. "I-"

"You can't let Basira into the coffin, Jon," Gerry says with such intensity that Jon wonders for a moment if he actually caught his lie, because surely Gerry worrying this much about Basira would be less weird than Gerry worrying this much about him. "For real. Promise it."

"I... I'll keep her away from it." Jon's nod feels a bit robotic to him. "I'm still not done. With you- w- with your hair I mean. The- the top..."

Gerry's eyes remain on him for another long moment, before he gives his head a little shake, and turns around again. Jon moves to grab another lock of hair.

"You say Martin is trying to keep you all safe, don't you?" Gerry says, and Jon's hands freeze. "He'd be pretty bummed out if Basira died for nothing, don't you think?"

"I-"

"So let's not let anyone into the coffin. For Martin."

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Melanie recognizes the sound of a blade sinking into flesh the moment she walks past Jon's closed door. She stops for a moment to try and identify the feelings it brings her, and she's both happy and disappointed to find curiosity as the most prominent. She opens the door after her self exploration, a bit surprised to find it unlocked.

Jon is standing hunched over his desk and gasping in pain, one hand laid flat on top of a towel that's doing a piss poor job of absorbing a small puddle of blood, and a knife held on the other one.

"What are you doing?" Melanie asks, leaning back on the door to close it.

"Oh!" Jon's head snaps up to meet her, and he drops the knife into an open drawer he pushes shut right after. "I-"

"Yeah, that makes everything much less suspicious." She rolls her eyes. "Where did all that blood come from?"

"Uh- me, actually," Jon says apologetically. The towel makes a squelching sound when he folds if over. "I'm- would you believe me if I told you I'm trying to save Daisy?"

"Has your first idea for 'help" always been bullshit surgery, or is this a new development?" Melanie crosses her arms over her chest, and begins tapping a finger against her arm. Even just being in a room with Jon is irritating. Not enraging anymore, but he's just... eugh.

"... I'm- Basira said you didn't want to see me-"

"I didn't," she shakes her head, arms still crossed. The tapping finger is now a fingernail lightly dragging -not quite scratching- against her skin.

"-But I'm- I'm very sorry Melanie," Jon says, and Melanie rolls her eyes.

"Fuck off," she mutters, and even the way Jon flinches back at her voice makes her angrier. "You 'saved' me, isn't that what you wanted? Go, team Archives."

"I... I wanted to ask you." Jon's voice is low. "To-"

"Yeah, no. The only reason Gerry was able to get me off of you was because I was fighting the anesthetic, the sleeping pills, and the bullet was already off." Melanie gives a humorless laugh. "Basira was right, the only way to do it was to betray me and effectively destroy the last space I still felt somewhat safe in. So thank you."

"Basira said you were better..."

"Basira doesn't care if I feel better, Jon." Melanie sinks her nail into the meat of her arm, and the momentary flash of pain serves to keep her grounded. "She only cares that I'm a variable she can control. My condition was good when it kept us safe, but I was becoming too volatile, and now I'm de-clawed so I'm better, according to her."

Jon looks at her with a pained expression she somehow doubts has anything to do with whatever he was doing to his hand, and sighs.

"I know you won't believe me, but I care that you feel better. Maybe it's enough to start letting go of the an-"

"Oh, shut up. Please shut up, you don't even know!" Melanie snarls, her fingernails now well and truly sunken into her arm. She takes a moment to pull them out and take a deep breath. "My whole life, Jon. My whole life I've been angry because people look at me and think they know better, think I'm not good enough, not strong enough. This anger you want me to let go of is the reason I've gotten this far, it's what has pushed me to do anything in the first place, it's-"

"M- Melanie," Jon tries, but she whips a hand up to point at him and he shuts up immediately, flinching.

"No, listen to me! Do you have any idea what it's like? Of course you don't! You were picked to run this place even though they could hardly have found anyone less qualified, probably because Elias knew anyone else would see through his bullshit right away, what do you know about being passed over because of who you are?" She snarls. The rage, it feels... not like before. Or maybe that's how it felt before India, every word letting something out instead of drawing more back in for her to stew over. Jon is listening to her every thought, and she can see the hurt on his face but at least someone is listening. "And then this- this ghost shoots me. And suddenly something inside me is telling me that this is right! That this is my power, that I can. The bullet didn't stay because of some spooky bullshit, Jon. The only reason it was able to stay in the first place is because I wanted it."

The office is silent for a moment, the only sound echoing across being Melanie's hard breathing. Jon drops on his chair suddenly, like his legs feel weak. He gives her a slow nod.

"...Shit. I- Of course. I didn't- the entities choose their own," he says, which Melanie guesses is pretty on line with what Gerry told her. The Slaughter wanted her because she had always craved the power anger gave her, so maybe the Eye chose Jon because the moron ways craved to at least have an inkling of what's going on. "But I never thought about that. I'm- I'm very sorry Melanie."

"Yes."

"Melanie-"

"So-" Melanie interrupts him, because she's not about to have a 'you and I are one' moment with Jon of all people. "Why are you trying to chop off your fingers?"

"Oh- that, I'm-" Jon looks at his right hand like it just grew out of his forearm. "I'm going into the coffin."

Melanie arches an eyebrow. "The chained up coffin with 'do not open' scratched on the top?"

"Yes I know how it sounds like, thank you." Job huffs and rolls his eyes, and Melanie has a flashback to the first time they met, when he was so skeptical about her show and she tried to rile him up about his Institute's reputation. It feels like an eternity ago. "But Daisy's in there, and I'm the only one that probably won't die if I go in after her. I just need an anchor to come back."

"And you thought a finger would be enough."

"Well... it's a part of me. It doesn't get much closer than that," Jon runs a hand through his hair. His nervousness makes him appear a little more human, at least. "But I keep healing. Hurts plenty, but they won't come off."

"Right... listen, does your boyfriend know about this?"

Jon, who'd been scowling at his hand for not mutilating adequately, snaps back up to look at her like a deer in the headlights.

She rolls her eyes. "There's hair dye all over your hand." Jon seems to catch on at last, because he blushes enough for it to be noticeable against his dark skin. Back when they were dating Georgie used to say he was cute when he was flustered, but to Melanie he just looks constipated. "Kudos for fixing that by the way. But back to my point, does he know? Because this sounds like the kind of brilliant plan you hatch at three in the morning before going at your hair with the kitchen scissors."

"That's... oddly specific." Jon swallows. "I- Gerry doesn't know, no. Or- he knows I was looking into anchors..."

"But?"

"... But I promised him I wouldn't go in." He admits after a moment's hesitation. "I have to though. If Daisy's alive- I can't leave her there."

Again, Melanie doesn't care about Jon at all. But people around her do for some reason, even Georgie, despite how angry she is at him right now. And leaving Daisy in the Buried... she can see where he's coming from.

"But you can't go in anyways, can't you?" She asks, stalling for time as she tries to come to a decision. Jon seems awfully sure about the anchors, and he has to know if it'll work, the Eye wouldn't let him go in if it wasn't solid. "Without cutting the finger off, you don't have anything."

Jon sighs. "I guess. Hah, this would be a lot easier if we had the bone turner. Just... reach in and get me a rib."

Oh.

That's exactly the moment Melanie remembers she never told anyone what she did to Jared Hopworth, when stabbing heart after heart wasn't enough to keep him down.

"...Melanie?" Jon asks, suspicion coloring every syllable.

"Follow me. And don't talk," she warns before marching off towards the tunnels.

Jon does keep quiet as they make their way to the bright yellow door, terribly out of place in the tunnel's faded gray walls.

"I didn't know it was living here," he says then, and Helen's echoing laugh seeps from below the door. Melanie rolls her eyes.

"She's helped us a lot," is all she says before she opens the door. She doesn't know the rules too well, because Helen can open it herself just fine at times. Maybe it's only when there's no one else to open it?

"Calling me an it doesn't do you any favors, Archivist. What are you, then?" When Helen walks out of the door her knees are backwards and her lipstick keeps changing colors. "Especially as of late?"

Jon stiffens, before he jerks his head towards Melanie. "Do you trust it? For real?"

Melanie crosses her arms, unimpressed. "Don't call her that."

"Fine," Jon rolls his eyes. "Do you trust her? She's never helped me too much."

"Helen did," Helen says, smiling. "She locked the door, did you know?"

And that seems to take Jon off guard.

"Did- did she know? What would happen to her?"

Helen's smile zigzags across her face. "Helen was sharp."

Jon doesn't seem to know what to say to that, so Melanie steps forward again.

"I do trust her. And if you want the bone turner, you'll have to trust her too," she says seriously. If Jon can't take Melanie's judgement at face value then-

"Ok," Jon mutters almost to himself. Melanie remembers the testament tape, how she and Martin and Basira listened to it together, when it looked like they might be the only ones left. Jon's adamant voice as he declares 'I choose to trust' has a haunting quality in her memory. "Right. Then- then I'll- is he in there?"

Helen nods. She looks very pleased, and Melanie smiles a little. Helen may not be human, but she's still her friend.

"Mmm... he's not something I can really digest. Too meaty, you know?" Helen gestures towards her open door. "I'll make sure you run into him."

Jon takes a deep breath to steel himself. "Ok. I'll- I'll offer to let him out. For the rib. If he tries something-"

"I suggest running," Helen coos, and Melanie gets the feeling that she finds this very amusing. "Try to find a door."

"...Yes thank you," Jon gives her the stink eye before pulling a tape recorder from his pocket. At this point Melanie's starting to believe they give him the same sense of safety the knives gave her when she was still affected by the bullet. He turns to her. "Melanie..."

"I'm not going in with you. Good luck," she says, but he shakes his head.

"No, I just… it was never the bullet," Jon says and Melanie wants to groan because of course he has to go and make it awkward. "I'm- I'm very sorry you felt that way."

"... Jon please go in before I push you."

The door closes, and Melanie sits down against the wall. Helen quite literally folds herself by her side, and they wait.

------------------------

"Oh, he's got his bone," says Helen an hour or so later when Melanie's just started dozing off. "He's not looking too good, though".

"Ugh. Of course he had to go and get himself all fucked up. What am I going to tell Gerry?" Melanie huffs, already trying to come up with a decent lie.

Helen tilts her head to the side. Her chin points at the ceiling. "We're keeping the secret?"

Melanie shrugs once, sharply. Jon doesn't deserve her loyalty, much less after everything that's happened lately. But she believes him when he says he's doing it for Daisy, and Melanie's personal grudges probably shouldn't get in the way of people doing what's right. Even if they're very reasonable personal grudges.

"Just this once," she tells Helen after a moment. "He'll owe me."

The door opens, and Jon groans and spills out like a boneless -Melanie can't hold back a snort- mess on the tunnels' floor, holding a startlingly white rib on his hand.

"He'll owe me big time."

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"Oh shit, you're back early," Melanie looks up from her phone like a startled deer when he walks into the Archives.

Gerry arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. "I brought ice cream, but if you're going to be like this I'll just eat it all myself," he walks past her towards Jon's office.

"He's not there. He's- taking care of some business." Melanie's voice is painfully casual, and Gerry pinches the bridge of his nose with the hand not holding his half eaten treat. Who taught these people to lie and why did they do such a piss poor job of it?

"Melanie, where's Jon?"

"Doing Archivist things."

"First off, you don't know what that is. Second off, there's not nearly enough screams for that," Gerry rolls his eyes. "Where is he?"

"He-"

"The truth this time please." Gerry throws the plastic bag on top of a desk, and turns to her only to find her with the same dazed expression. "Why are you even lying? It's not like-" his stomach drops suddenly, and Gerry feels his mouth go dry. "Ah fuck. He did it."

He doesn't even want to think about what this means for him, because he's tied to Jon somehow, and now Jon is gone. Trapped. Unable to move, unable to breathe, dirt pressing all around him but never choking him enough to die. All to save another person because that's the only way he thinks he can justify his existence.

"He did what? Gerry, you're not making-" Melanie tries to talk over him, but he needs to get the words out because they taste rotten in his mouth.

"He went into the damned coffin didn't he? He promised he wouldn't, did-"

"He didn't-" Melanie slaps a hand on the desk to get his attention, and Gerry whips around to look at her. "Jon's fine. He just wasn't feeling well, you're making a mess." Gerry looks down. The half eaten lolly's melting on his hand, and a small red puddle has formed on the desk. "Wow, déja vu," mutters Melanie to herself.

"What's happened to him then?" Gerry frowns. It's not as if a migraine would be able to drop an avatar.

"I don't really like being Seen," comes a new voice, and Gerry whips around again, this time to see the yellow door that's now the entrance to a place that is not Jon's office. "And I didn't make it easy for him."

"So you two had a row?" That would make more sense, Gerry thinks. The Spiral is hard on the Eye. "About what?"

"Keep asking. Ended very well for him," Helen says smugly. Gerry notices however, that the Distortion hasn't even cracked the door open, much less come out, so Jon must've at least gotten a few good metaphorical punches in, whatever it was that they were fighting about. He turns to Melanie.

"What happened?"

Melanie rolls her eyes. "He called her an it. Everything escalated from there," she shrugs, and Gerry guesses from the way she averts her eyes that there's something she's not telling him, but that's ok. Whatever relationship she has with the Distortion is her own business. "He's on Basira's cot, by the tunnels."

Gerry blinks. "By the what?"

"The tunnels?" Melanie arches an eyebrow, like Gerry's playing dumb on purpose. "The ones under the Institute?"

"...Of course." Gerry forces through a suddenly too tight throat. "I'll- I'll go check on him."

"You forgot your loll- ugh," is all Gerry hears as he escapes the room, but he couldn't care less about the melting treat on the desk.

He walks aimlessly, trying to drown the cacophony of his thoughts with the loud sound of his steps, and he's barely aware -and vaguely thankful- that whatever tether his body was rebuilt around is pulling him toward Jon.

He shouldn't be this surprised, honestly. Gertrude... Gertrude lied about worse things. Did worse things. The entire conversation they had that evening is playing in his mind again, and Gerry feels his knees weaken as his pulse begins to race.

"Do you think they can reach us after death?"

Just when did he forget Gertrude was not his mother? How did he forget she could be just as cruel? Gerry's hands are shaking a little.

"Personally, I suspect death puts us beyond their power..."

Did she remember that moment as she mutilated his body in that American morgue? Did she even stop to think before she did it? His head feels like it's filled with crawling ants as he imagines, not for the first time, Gertrude peeling his skin off to make his page.

He lays a hand flat against the wall when the world starts wobbling a little. During the first few months in the book, Gerry had entertained the thought that Gertrude bound him out of some twisted version of love. She needed him around, they were a team, she'd burn his page when the job was done, and they'd be free together.

The fantasy only really lasted up until the hunters summoned him for the first time, and let him know they bought the book from a less than trustworthy cop that turned a blind eye to the two of them rifling through evidence for anything supernatural. Why does he feel so light-headed? He's breathing, he's breathing as fast as he can but there's no air in his lungs and they're starting to burn and-

"Gerry?" The voice is like a soothing balm, snuffing out all of Gerry's thoughts at once and leaving him only with blessed silence and the taste of the gentle concern poured into his name. He looks up -he doesn't remember when he slid down the wall- to find Jon crouching before him. "What happened?" He asks, and the words once again taste sweet with worry.

Gerry wonders if this isn't the Eye's cruelest joke yet, handing Gerry over to someone who actually cares, after the fate that befell him at the hands of his predecessor. After he's learned not to trust.

"Why's your hand all red? Your mouth- is it- oh it's sticky-" Jon's touch is clumsy when it lands first on Gerry's cherry-stained hand, then on his face. Yet another confirmation that he's not accustomed to human closeness. "You don't look good."

"You've looked better yourself." Gerry croaks, but it lacks the light teasing tone he usually gives Jon. It's... it probably wouldn't come across too well right now. "Why do you have a Flesh mark?"

Jon lips twist into a tired version of his usual, lopsided smile, as his hand curls into a fist and lays softly on Gerry's shoulder. Now that the panic attack is subsiding, the exhaustion is kicking in. "Helen has eaten some nasty things."

"You look like someone's fear bingo card," Gerry huffs. One would think Elias would take better care of his Archivist, even Gertrude never had these many close encounters and she practically looked for them.

"What's the prize?" Jon asks, his smile still tired but a bit more alive with amusement.

'You are', Gerry thinks, and at the same time he also Knows. Both certainties are puzzling enough, but he's not in the headspace to think harder about any of them. Besides, it's a bit heavy to just drop that out there. "Let's not find out. I'd rather keep you out of trouble."

"I- I picked up a statement. To read at home," Jon mumbles. Gerry chuckles a little. He doesn't remember if he ever really had something he could call home, but the little flat with the lavender-smelling couch and Jon on the coffee table feel welcoming enough. "But I think we could use it now. Both of us."

Gerry lays a heavy hand on Jon's shoulder and pulls him down, moving slowly enough that Jon can turn around before he lands, leaning half on the wall, half against Gerry's side.

"Sounds like a plan." Gerry leans his head back against the wall to look up at the old, flickering lightbulbs. He feels Jon's troubled eyes on him. An Archivist's gaze is not to be ignored, but Gerry can't bring himself to look back. It's already bad enough that he likes Jon. That he cares for him, trusts him.

Maybe being tied to Jon is not the price to pay for living again. Maybe the price is learning just all the ways Gertrude played him. Learning again and again that perhaps he did trust her after all, and that it was all for nothing. Living with the constant fear that the second time around will be just the same, and there's something in Gerry that causes people to leave.

Jon's hand lands on Gerry's knee suddenly, gracelessly. Reassuringly.

"Statement of Adam Rodak," Jon reads. His word taste of peace, and his hand squeezes around Gerry's knee. A small comfort, from someone so unused to getting them. Gerry lets his eyes fall shut and his head fall sideways to rest against Jon's. "Regarding a holiday on the countryside..."

#jongerrymartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #gerry keay #j/g/m #vit writes

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beholdme · 3 years

Text

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 15

Chapters: 15/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

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

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

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14]

Almost a year into their relationship, Martin's lease comes up.

There's brief romantic talk of them all moving in together, but they're all attached to their own spaces, especially with Gerry needing to keep his art studio, and it trails off without any real resolution.

When Martin's landlord doesn't want to renew and he essentially has no choice but to find a new place to live, he panics.

Jon is with him when he opens the letter, and witnesses the heartbreak on his face, a look far more appropriate to the death of a loved one than to having to move house.

He understands though. This is Martin's first home. The first rent he paid, the first freedom he claimed. The first place he had whispered 'I love you' to Jon, and the first place Gerry had pressed his lips to Martin's.

Jon is settled in his own flat in a more practical way. It's close to the library, Gerry's bar and also to Martin's bookstore, but he still understands Martin's heartache, even if it is detached from his scope of personal attachment.

As Jon takes the time to think things through, he knows they're being silly. When was the last time he had commuted to work from his own flat? And if Martin had to move anyway, why shouldn't the three of them be living together? Gerry would happily spend every spare second with them and frequently tells them so.

At their knock, Gerry opens the door in a pair of leather pants and not much else, hair faded out from navy to a soft violet.

He physically reacts to see Martin tear-stained and Jon frowning intensely at his side.

"Why tears? Who do I need to murder?" Gerry mutters darkly as he draws Martin inside and into his arms.

"He has to move out of his flat," Jon tells him angrily, still standing in the doorway.

"Oh, love." He whispers, rocking Martin gently.

"It's so stupid to cry about it. It's just a shitty little flat." He hiccups into Gerry's chest.

"Fuck that. We all know better than that. That flat was important to you," Gerry retreats further into the studio, dragging his weepy partner with him and leaving Jon to shut the door. "And you're important to us, so here's the plan. Gertrude and I are gonna dig up some dirt, we're gonna have a little chat with your landlord, and he's gonna agree to sell you your flat. Problem solved."

Martin laughs wetly as he is deposited in the cushion pile and Gerry follows him down to sit in front of him and take his hands.

Jon strips his jacket and scarf off and tosses them on the couch (the biggest indication of his upset, really, as he normally always meticulously hangs things up), before flopping down on the floor with them. Martin and Gerry offer a hand each, and they sit in a triangle, connected.

"Gerry, you can't blackmail my landlord into selling me my flat." Martin starts, voice still choked with tears, "Not least of all because I can't afford to buy it anyway. I already have a business loan, not to mention all the debt from before my mother died."

Apparently able to sense any great excess of emotion, Luna and Saturn wander in and both attempt to curl up in Martin's lap. Jon takes Saturn, leaving Luna to her tearful human. Martin smiles gratefully and disentangles his hands to pet behind her ears.

There's silence for a moment as they consider Martin's words. Gerry opens his mouth, closes it, then decides to say what he wants to anyway. "I could lend you the money. Or give it to you. Whichever you prefer."

The look on his face could be accurately described as casually angelic, and he reaches out a hand to stroke Saturn benevolently.

Martin and Jon stare at him, stunned.

"What do you mean?" Jon eventually prods him, incredulously.

Gerry opens his mouth to respond, but Jon senses the sass coming and adds, "A real answer please," rather firmly.

"Fine then," Gerry mutters, rolling his pretty teal eyes. "I have some money in savings. And in investments and stuff, I'm not actually irresponsible, despite what my appearance might imply. And the years I spent galivanting about the county. And Europe." He shrugs, rambling on, "Okay, maybe I am irresponsible."

His partners stare at him for a moment, then exchange a look.

“Define some money?” Jon says, poking him in the ribs. Gerry tells them.

“What!?” At Jon’s exclamation, Gerry blushes from the roots of his hair, and all the way down his bare chest.

"Where did you get it?" Martin finally asks.

"From selling my paintings?" Gerry responds, but it comes out as a question, and he rubs his burning neck in embarrassment.

"And," Jon says, voice carefully neutral; having regained some sense of composure, "why do you keep your job at the bar if you have enough money to casually offer to buy Martin a flat?"

"Don't feel left out Jon, I'll buy your flat too." Gerry offers, smiling at him beatifically.

"Gerry…" Martin lets out his name in the significant tone of voice that lets him know this is a 'serious conversation'™ and to get his shit together.

"Okay, okay," Gerry flaps his hands uncomfortably. "At first it was just because I was convinced that the painting money was gonna dry up and I didn't want to be left in the lurch. I've always operated anonymously and that made it hard to make money as an artist, it was only when Gertrude joined the crusade that I found any success. She insisted that people would buy prints online, and she was right. The digital art and prints were really popular, and it led to people wanting the originals." Gerry pauses and shakes his head in disbelief. "And Gertrude always has to be extra about everything, so she sold them at fucking auction instead of pricing them, which made me seem edgy and exclusive."

"You are edgy and exclusive," Jon interrupts to insist, a slight petulant edge staining his voice.

"Thanks," Gerry mutters, still blushing. "Anyway, so then I had all this money, but I was convinced it wouldn't last and now it's been years and it's only gotten worse and I was panicking so Gertrude took half the money and helped me put it into investments, which have mostly been pretty successful too, so now I have all this fucking money that I don't know what to do with, so Martin, would you like a flat?" Gerry ends his monologue slightly hysterical and Martin laughs out loud at the slight desperation in his voice.

"Do you even own this flat? I've been wondering how you could possibly afford it." Martin asks him, gesturing around at the massive space in one of the most up-and-coming parts of London.

"Yes, it's one of the only significant things I've ever actually paid for with the art money. You know, to do art in."

"And were you ever planning to mention this?" Jon queries, sounding slightly put out. He frowns down at the cat, instead of his ridiculous boyfriend. Saturn decides at that moment that he's had enough belly-rubs, and without warning, sinks his claws in, bites Jon's hand and then scurries off. Jon glares at his fluffy black tail as it disappears up the stairs and Gerry tries very hard not to laugh at him.

"Jonathan!" Martin scolds him, pushing his shoulder gently to regain his attention. "Gerry doesn't have to tell us about his finances."

Jon pouts even harder.

"Jon's right, I should have said something. I just didn't want it to be a big deal." Gerry responds, voice quiet and unusually reserved. He looks a little adrift and helpless, and they can see just how uncomfortable the money talk has made him.

Jon sighs and dislodges the stick from up his ass. "It's not a big deal, love, I'm only surprised. I'm glad it's out the way now." He collects Gerry's hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Gerry relaxes and tugs Jon closer to kiss him, before offering the same to Martin.

They all sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, digesting the day's many revelations.

“Not that I’m not incandescently happy to see you both, but why did you actually come over?” Gerry asks eventually.

“Oh,” Martin sits up straighter, remembering their original objective. He looks down at the cat in his lap, stroking its back in an effort to distract himself. “It’s a little awkward actually.”

Gerry raises his eyebrows, thinking of what could make Martin feel awkward after all the things they’ve done together, occasionally right where they are currently sitting.

"Do tell." Gerry urges him. Martin and Jon share a look. Gerry rolls his eyes at the pair of them. "Come on, guys, whatever it is, just tell me. It can't possibly be that bad. Unless you're breaking up with me? Because fuck that."

"No, Gerry," Jon says, sounding amused. "The opposite."

"The opposite?" Gerry asks, frowning.

"Yes, the opposite," Jon tells him more firmly. "We were thinking," Martin makes a small nose at this, "that is, I was thinking, that since Martin has to move anyway, the three of us should finally take the plunge."

"You know," Gerry mutters peevishly, "I love riddles as much as the next overdramatic goth with a young adult book obsession, but could you please spit it the fuck out."

"Jonthinksweshouldallmoveintogetherhere." Martin finally rushes out, breathlessly.

"Martin, baby, those are separate words."

He takes a deep breath and tries again. "Jon thinks we should all move in together, here, with you."

Gerry sits up taller abruptly, a wide grin spreading over his handsome face. "What, really? You actually want to."

"Well, yes," Jon says, although his voice still sounds nervous.

"Okay great. Luna and Saturn are gonna love this." Gerry jumps up excitedly. "So I know you guys like having your own personal space, and I always have my art shit everywhere, but I've been thinking and I think we can make you both comfortable here too."

Martin and Jon share a perplexed look at Gerry's sudden frenetic burst of energy.

"We'll be comfortable here no matter what," Martin rushes to reassure him.

"Hush," Gerry speaks over him. "We both know you're just saying that because you feel like an inconvenience. But you're not and we all have to make this our home. Come, come on, I want to show you."

Gerry grabs a hand from each of them and drags them behind him and around and under the wide stairs that lead up to the loft space.

He leads them to two doors under the stairs, leading them into one. It's a large storeroom, technically, and Gerry has filled it with extra paint, canvases of many different sizes, and a plethora of other painting supplies. There aren't any windows, and the industrial light makes the space look stark. The scent of oil paint and turpentine is pervasive, but homey since those are things they associate heavily with Gerry himself.

"They're both the same. I've been thinking that if you two ever did want to move in here, you could take one each. A creative space just for yourselves, or your own bedrooms if you need some space once in a while. If you want them." His typical self-confidence is slightly lacking, the nervous twist of his fingers belaying his nerves at the admission.

"Oh Gerry," Martin says with something akin to wonder in his voice.

"But aren't you using them?" Jon asks, never one to let romanticism come in the way of practicality.

Gerry shrugs, "I've been thinking of having cupboards installed in the studio space and moving all this in there anyway. It will be more convenient for me when I'm working and it will be worth it to have you here all the time."

Gerry pauses, brow furrowing. "I've also considered moving the art studio in here so you two don't have to trip over my art stuff all the time."

Martin and Jon both understand the significance of that offer, knowing that Gerry's favourite things about this place are the high ceilings, giant windows, and natural lighting at most times of the day and even at night.

"You would be willing to give up your art space for us?" Martin asks in some wonder.

"Well yeah, of course," Gerry says as if it's obvious. "We'll all have to share the bedroom then, but the living space will be bigger. Whatever you would prefer."

"Just like that?" Jon's blunt incredulity finally tips Gerry off to their shock.

"Oh come on. I obviously haven't been a very good boyfriend if you two don't already know that you're more important to me than painting." It was the most romantic thing Gerry could say to anyone, really.

Martin kisses him, tearing up again.

"What did I say? Don't cry, love." He reaches up to wipe the tears away, and Martin offers him a wobbly smile.

Jon goes over to kiss him too. "You love us more than art."

"We're going in circles here. Yes, I love you both more than literally anything." Gerry is starting to wonder if they're being obtuse on purpose.

"We love you too," Jon tells him emphatically.

"Of course you do. I'm delightful." They all dissolve into laughter at that, the weighty mood breaking with it.

"So do you think you'll both be happy here?" Gerry asks when the laughter has faded.

Even standing in the mildly dusty storeroom and breathing in paint fumes, Jon knows the answer already. "I think we might be able to make it work."

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

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you-guys--are-losers · 4 years

Note

Number 11 please :)

//Absolutey! Thank you for being so patient, hope you’re getting plenty of writing time in.

11: ferris wheel date

Sparklers and Cinnamon

Summary: Every once in a while, MJ doesn’t mind a little dose of cliche.

Characters: Michelle Jones x Peter Parker

Wordcount: 1,976

Warnings: Exists in a Universe Where Jon Watts WASN’T a Major Troll With the End Credits

Her hand in his has Peter’s heart racing faster than any swing through Queens has ever given him.

It’s a bright day, and it’s cliche and ridiculous and crowded at Coney Island. The tickets were way too expensive, the colors of the bright pink cotton candy and the smell of candied nuts are overpowering, and all of it is an extremely bright contrast to MJ’s muted tones and grey jacket.

The shy, growing grin on her lips completely washes out the artificial colors, sounds, and smells around them.

Carefully, her fingertips brush his once more, and Peter can feel the hardened skin there that comes from the embroidery she recently revealed she enjoys. He catches his breath, moving his thumb to lightly brush the outside of their entwined hands. It’s her turn to inhale, and Peter casts her an amused look in response to the reaction.

The warm light of the sun, which is just beginning to set, sets her hair on fire as she turns her head to him, raising an eyebrow. Her lips part slightly as she glances away, but despite the flustered quirk to her lips, her eyes hold that same dry humor that he like so much.

“Something you want to share with the class, Peter?” she prompts, bumping her shoulder with his as they pass a family with a particularly large stroller and too many kids to really be paying attention.

“Nah, nah,” Peter says easily, unable to keep a teasing grin off his lips. “I’m good.”

“Well, according to the Sokovia Accords, you’re, like, a criminal. So if that’s your version of ‘good.’“ She raises her eyebrows at him, challenging, but the smile that has grown on his mouth is mirrored on her own.

“Yeah… I’m pretty sure this is my version of good,” Peter breathes, his hand squeezing her own slightly. Her mouth releases into a soft ‘o’ as their steps slow for a moment, his eyes locked on hers. Her torso shifts towards him slightly, and for a second they stop, causing a group of girls behind them to shoot Peter and MJ a look.

MJ doesn’t even glance their way. She is frozen, and for a moment so is he, just staring.

“Sorry,” he breathes, hand rising to rub the back of his neck.

“It’s okay.” Her face is sunshine and starlight and all of the cheesy things that Peter has ever read about in books… No. Those things aren’t MJ. Her smile is a gentle rain on the day that you feel like you’re crawling out of your skin, soothing and cool.

He hopes it never stops falling, that it pours down around him.

“So, uh… You said that you wanted to come here for a reason?” MJ continues walking, her hands moving to her pockets. Still, they maintain their proximity; her shoulder brushes his as they walk, and a few stray wisps of her hair tickle his cheek in the breeze.

“Yeah! Yeah,” Peter says quickly, brightening. “Um, I mean… It’s a pretty good people-watching spot.”

“Definitely,” MJ agrees, tipping her chin up to observe the crowd. “I’ve already seen, like, twelve people being pick-pocketed. It’s a good day.”

Peter grins, and he runs a hand through his hair as he tips his head to the side to watch her reacting. “Well… What about watching them from up above?”

MJ’s eyes widen, then narrow. “Wait, are we talking about spider-ing? Because, uh, nope. Not a fan, so…”

“Uh, no,” Peter says quickly, shaking his head. “No, no. I actually meant…” His gaze drifts over her shoulder to the ferris wheel, the iconic one with a ridiculously long line. Her eyes follow his to the Wonder Wheel, and a little grin drifts onto her lips as she glances back to him.

“You remembered.”

“Yeah.” He pauses, then reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear so that it’s not drifting in her face. Her lips twitch as she looks at him, and for a moment the emotions on her face are more than just happiness. Then she’s leaning forward, and Peter can’t think straight because she’s just given him a quick peck on the cheek.

MJ doesn’t pause to acknowledge the gesture as she continues walking, her hand tugging his sleeve to turn him in the direction of the wheel. He can’t help the laughter that leaves him at her attempt to move past the moment.

“Wait, wait. What was that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was just making sure that that freckle behind your ear isn’t cancerous.”

“Cool. Verdict?”

“You’re totally gonna die in, like, three hours.”

“Sad day. At least we’ll be a quarter of the way through the line by then.”

Her stifled huff of amusement buoys him along on the summer afternoon, and so they continue on down the path to the iconic New York landmark.

The line isn’t bad, actually. It’s getting later, and a lot of park-goers are leaving to fetch dinner, particularly those with young children. The light is getting longer, and Peter and Michelle’s shadows are emaciated, willowy giants as they take their place in the line. Soon, golden sunlight has turned orange and coral, exploding across the landscape around them as they play stupid games to pass the time in line.

“Most likely to have a second family living in another country. Go.”

“Blue shirt, buying her kids the whole popcorn stand.”

Peter’s eyes find the woman MJ is referring to, contemplating her before nodding. “You had that answer ready really fast.”

“I can tell when someone only has one double life. Amateurs.” Peter grins in response to MJ’s quip, shaking his head as she searches her mind for a category. “Most likely to be part of a cult.”

“You.”

“Right answer. Now I have to either indoctrinate you or kill you. Your choice.”

Peter hums, thinking about it as he pulls their half-finished bag of roasted nuts from his pocket. “I think I choose indoctrination,” he decides, holding it out to her after taking a few for himself.

She does so without hesitation, popping one in her mouth as they take a few steps closer to the cars of the ferris wheel, tossing one of the nuts to a pigeon that is strutting a few feet away from them. The bird tips his head to the side in an angular movement, studying them before pecking once, then twice at the nut. It turns its head back to them, squawking once before it flaps away. The nut has been left behind.

“Ungrateful,” MJ muses. “I was trying to be environmentally friendly.”

“Is that what that was?”

“I’m nurturing Mother Earth, Peter. Don’t mock me.”

Peter grins, tucking away the rest of the remaining snack. “Noted.” Michelle watches him for a moment with the same scrutinizing gaze as the pigeon did. “I had fun today.”

“Me, too. I’m really glad you came.”

MJ opens her mouth to say something, but then the underpaid teen running the ride calls, “Hey. Are you getting on, or…?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter says quickly. MJ blinks and quickly turns, and the two get into the cream-colored car before the redheaded kid running the machine shuts the door with a little more force than necessary. Before either of them can say anything, the car is moving up to allow the next group of people in.

Michelle inhales, and then she lets out a deep breath as she peers out the window at the ocean and the beach. Peter spares the window a quick glance, and the fading pink sunset on the water is certainly a pretty sight. He likes the view from right here, though… The way that her eyes are dissecting the landscape below like those of a bird of prey. The intensity of her gaze is contrasted against the soft, violet light that is filtering into the car.

He thinks he could get used to this feeling of fireworks in his chest.

Someone brought sparklers to the beach below, and MJ is currently watching the sputtering lights from just above ground level. Peter imagines that when they are up high, they will shimmer and shine like scraps of tinfoil on the pavement below.

“You know, Ned and Betty almost died on a ferris wheel,” she mentions, her fingers relaxing on the caged windows.

“Eh, not really,” Peter says, trying for her nonchalant tone. “I mean, you’re the one who proved that one wrong.”

She glances at him over her shoulder, smiling slightly. “I did. Maybe I should be the one in the suit.”

“Mm.”

“What, are you saying that you don’t think I could kick someone’s ass?” MJ asks, turning her gaze to him. The same stare that caught him so off-guard in the opera house is one he’s getting used to, slowly but surely.

“No,” Peter says, shaking his head as he looks at her from across the car, suddenly a bit bashful now that they’re alone.

“I just think you could save more people as MJ than I ever could as Spider-Man.”

The car lurches as the ride begins moving; neither of them is prepared for it. MJ stiffens, and across the car she audibly catches her breath. At least that’s marginally less embarrassing than Peter’s reaction, which is to adhere himself to the sides with his fingertips.

MJ is amused as Peter’s cheeks heat up. “Maybe I should sit by you,” she suggests, her voice careful to stay cool. “You know, just so that they don’t have to pry you out of this thing.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m cool with that,” Peter says, voice sheepish as she moves to sit beside him. He can smell the lemony scent of her shampoo as she settles beside him; it grows stronger as her head drifts down to rest against his. He exhales, resting his own temple on her shoulder comfortably as the car begins to move. The lights from below are growing to be the only illumination as the final rays of sun disappear.

“I can’t believe you remembered,” she murmurs from beside him, and Peter feels his cheeks heat again. “Dork.”

“Hey… It was just that good.”

“No, it wasn’t. I had just started stippling, it was crazy uneven.”

“I thought it was really cool,” Peter defends himself, allowing his head to sink further against her shoulder.

MJ hums, her hand coming to rest against his on his knee. He lightly runs his fingertips along her knuckles, watching the changing sky outside the window. “You’ve always been a really good artist, and it was my first day at Midtown. It was the coolest thing I’d seen all day, and you looked so… I dunno. You.”

MJ is quiet from beside him, and when she finally does, it’s to say, “Wow. You’re more cliche than I already thought you were.”

“Than you already thought I was?”

“You’re a high-school superhero who was bitten by a radioactive spider. You could have your own Disney channel show or something.”

Peter grins, and he reaches for her hand. She gives it to him willingly, and when the wheel stops with them at its highest point, she glances his way. Though her words are dry, her tone is a bit breathless as they take in the sight of the beach below.

“I can’t think of anything that could possibly make this cheesier.”

Someone down below lights fireworks, which explode in the night sky above and bathe the world in red and blue.

Peter doesn’t remember starting to laugh, but he does know that MJ somehow manages to look both fond and exasperated as she leans over to kiss him. Her lips taste like cinnamon and brown sugar against his, and Peter knows that this is the moment he’s going to come back to whenever he needs reminding of what “home” is.

#prompt answer #peter parker #michelle jones #michelle jones x peter parker #spideychelle #spideychelle fanfiction #original work

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