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ollieofthebeholder · 1 year

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oh 29 for the fic wip please please please

Send me an ask about one of my WIPs to learn more!

So remember in the notes of Chapter 45 of leaves when I said I'd struggled with the chapter because I'd suddenly got the idea for a plot twist that would 100% break the pacing of the plot?

This was that plot twist. (Putting the rest under a Read More because it spoils the ending of leaves.)

Basically, when Melanie stabbed Jonah after JonMartin Prime went back in time, the plan was for the Keeper to throw her a door and get her out of the Institute safely. Unfortunately, she timed it exactly right - or exactly wrong, depending on how you look at it - and got caught in the tangle of the tethers as they snapped around Jonah and were dragged through the crack beneath Hill Top Road. Ironically, she managed the one thing Jon and Martin hadn't - to get the timing down so that she was still alive when the Fears went through - which means that, unlike with the Primes, there wasn't an extra copy of Melanie King wandering about. She went back into her life, her body, exactly as she was the day she went to the Institute for the second time in S2.

So yeah, in this AU (I can't believe I have an AU of my own fic, but here we are), the Melanie who turns up in Chapter 31 is the one from the future.

As a bonus, have her first interaction with Past Jon from her POV:

There’s nobody else in there. Two of the desks have laptops on them, both closed, and stacks of paperwork beside them. The trapdoor is exposed but not open. It’s all perfectly mundane and normal and Melanie hates all of it.

She strides over to the Archivist’s office. The door is firmly shut; politeness dictates that she ought to knock, but Jon hates people knocking on his door for reasons she’s never cared enough to learn, so instead, she just pulls open the door.

“Excuse me, do you have a moment?” she asks.

Jon jumps backwards, obviously startled. He’s seated at his desk, recorder clutched in one hand. Evidently he was in the middle of recording a statement…or something…and she’s caught him off guard. He’s wearing the sweater she remembers him wearing more or less from the moment he came back from his coma to, well, the moment she quit, and she remembers, too, that it’s one of Martin’s that he accidentally left in the office when he took the job with Peter Lukas.

That’s a good sign. Maybe.

“Miss King—uh—how did you get in here?” Jon is trying to sound professional, but he actually sounds like he’s trying to get his heart rate under control.

“Sasha let me in.” Melanie steps all the way into the office and closes the door, just in case Elias is about, and studies Jon. She wants to ask if he’s from the future, if he remembers, but instead she asks, “Are you all right?”

“Hmm? Sorry?” Jon oh-so-casually closes the folder in front of him and slides it under the stack next to him. Like she’s not going to notice. She may not be tied to the Eye…yet…but whatever that statement is, it’s something he doesn’t want her to see.

There may be hope yet.

“You look like hell,” Melanie says. It’s how this conversation went the first time, but also, it’s true. Jon looks stressed, worry in his eyes he’s only barely concealing, and there’s a tension about him like a spring ready to snap. He’s gripping the tape recorder so hard his hand is trembling faintly. About the only good thing that can be said for him is that he looks like he’s got a few good meals in him, and he doesn’t have the extensive scarring she remembers from the last time she sat across of him in this office.

Something about that nags at the back of her mind, but it’s quickly drowned in the wave of emotion that hits her as she remembers the genuine compassion and devastation in Jon’s eyes when she asked him to call an ambulance for me in about five minutes, the way he’d actually hugged her tightly and almost made her reconsider her actions. How annoyed she’d been when he was the one to scream in agony when she did it, the way he’d cradled her and whispered I’m sorry over and over until she passed out from her own pain. Memories she’d apparently repressed, because goddammit, she still doesn’t like him.

“It’s been a rough few months,” Jon says, recalling her to the present, and she looks up at him, desperately searching for some sign that that’s a hint, that he’s signaling to her that he’s spent the last few months slogging through a post-apocalyptic hellscape. His eyes flick over her for a moment. “And if I look like hell, you must be in a far lower circle than I am. Are you all right?”

That’s not something she ever expected to hear from Jon, and she blinks at him, even as hope flares up again. It’s him, it’s him, he made it, they made it…“Fine. I—um—” She considers for a minute, then decides, best to be cautious. Maybe she can convince him to duck down to the tunnels. “I actually need your help.”

Jon’s eyes narrow, just slightly, and his voice goes flat and cynical. “Interesting.”

She still can’t read him. Time to try an experiment. Melanie snaps, and she isn’t entirely faking being annoyed. “All right, can you not be an arsehole about it? I just need access to your library.”

Her Jon, the Jon from her timeline, will refuse. If he thinks she’s the Melanie King from the past, then he’s aware of where this path will take her, aware of what will happen if he lets her look at those books, if he lets her go to India. He’ll tell her no, he’ll look like it hurts him, but he’ll do it, because even if it means Past Melanie will hate him, it’ll at least keep her safe, and then—

“So talk to Diana,” Jon says, sounding a bit clipped. “She runs the place.”

And just like that, the little flicker of hope in her chest dies. He doesn’t remember her, only knows her as the irritating, argumentative woman who came in with a story and shouted at him the whole time. It’s not her Jon. Something’s gone terribly, terribly wrong and they didn’t make it back. Or at least he didn’t make it back. Maybe there’s still hope for Martin. Maybe.

Melanie should storm out at this point, but…she can’t. If there’s any hope of changing things, she’ll have to do it herself. Jon may be an arse, but that doesn’t mean he deserves what happens—happened—to him. Nobody does.

“Yeah, I don’t exactly have the academic credentials you guys demand, so apparently I need someone to vouch for me,” she says. Jon sighs heavily, sounding annoyed, but she plunges on regardless. “And you’re basically the closest thing I have to a friend here.”

It hurts, saying it like that. Because they weren’t friends, they weren’t, she absolutely hates his guts and he never really liked her either (he tried to find another way out for you, he knew you wanted to quit, he promised you he would find something, he let you quit even though he knew it would likely hurt him…). But the man standing before her is the closest thing she has to the man she knew, and that’s…supremely unfair.

Jon gives a short, disbelieving laugh. “We’ve spoken once, and we ended up screaming at each other—”

“Yes! And that’s more than I have with anyone else here.” Melanie feels as though she’s following the lines of a well-worn script, words put down on paper and given her to memorize. She does it anyway, though, invoking Georgie’s name, startling Jon into admitting that he and Georgie hadn’t parted on the best of terms, avoiding mentioning the details of why nobody in the business will talk to her anymore, describing people in the industry as skeptics pretending to be believers pretending to be skeptics.

And that’s where the first twist comes in, because instead of sneering I think the word you’re looking for is “charlatans”, Jon looks at her for a moment and then says, “And none of them are helpful.”

She starts to bristle automatically, then looks at him again. He’s not…dismissing her. She doesn’t know how to take that, so she just tries to go back on script, telling him the group split up, responding to his small noise of distress (not a go on this time, which is odd) by describing the bare bones of what led to her arrest. “After that…”

“Your reputation went with it,” Jon says.

He doesn’t say all-important. He’s taking her seriously. Melanie looks away, clenching her jaw tightly, trying her hardest to stay angry. It’s important that she be angry here, it’s important that nobody suspect…and damn it all, she does. Not. Like. Jonathan. Sims. He’s everything about herself she hates, which is…basically everything, if she’s being honest, and they’ve never done anything but rub one another the wrong way.

I’m so sorry, Melanie, I should never have put you in harm’s way like this, this is all my fault…

“Yes,” she grits out, forcing back the memories (and oh, God, why are they coming out now, why couldn’t they have just stayed decently buried). “Look, I have leads that I really need to follow up on, and as far as my colleagues are concerned these days, I’m the ghost.”

She’s aware of the dark irony in her voice at that. She’s practically the fucking Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. And nobody but her will ever know that. She just needs Jon to talk with Diana, get her that pass, and then—

“All right,” Jon says. “Come on, then.”

Melanie’s head jerks up. That’s not in the script. “What?” she asks, a bit stupidly.

“Come on,” Jon repeats, and he actually gets to his feet as he does so. “I’ll take you up to the library and vouch for you. If all else fails, I can claim we’re borrowing you as an adjunct for a few weeks or something.” He must see something in her face, because he suddenly falters. “U-unless you’d rather wait?”

“Oh.” Melanie isn’t sure whether to hug him or hit him. This…isn’t right. This isn’t what she expected. Maybe he is…no, no, he wouldn’t let her go up there if he was.

But Sasha’s alive, and Jon’s being helpful, and something has clearly changed. Maybe Martin’s making a difference.

“No, the sooner the better,” she says. “I—just expected a bit more of a fight, to be honest.” She also expected him to say something about losing the respect of his peers, but…

“Yes, well, I know what it’s like to be itching to follow up on a lead and have your every effort frustrated,” Jon says dryly. “And I believe I owe you for being…dismissive of you before.” While Melanie is still trying to cope with that, he seems to suddenly notice the recorder in his hand and adds, “Uh, end supplemental.”

She should be pissed about being recorded, but…she’s not. Maybe she can steal that tape later and listen back to it to prove to herself she didn’t imagine this. Acceding to Jon’s gesture, she heads back out into the Archives proper.

#ollie writes fanfic #asks for ts #jaz--hands

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saccharinemeat · 5 months

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D , K , L , S , T , W , Z . good monin .... looks at you respectfully kissin ... hi ..... hello . hey

Answerin' this so latey but still! myah myah

D - A pairing you wish you liked but just can’t.

Depends on fandom,but from iii, clover/nickel and candle/silver spoon. which i know you do like but i just cant help but be annoyed by em sometimes. particularly the latter cuz yknow. f/o.

non object and unrelated to shared fandoms, definitely Jonmartin. I know they're canon i know wah wah the dinghy I DONT FUCKING CARE. martin is a little bitch to Jon during the eyepocalypse and idk. idk he gets on my nerves. JonMichael forever actually. (And i like martin with peter lukas. toxic gilf win.)

K - What character has your favorite development arc/the best development arc?

Depends on the fandom, object wise i wanna say Balloon (especially in iii), and while i also love Flowers arc i feel she got a bit watered down at the end of bfb. Quite curious to know where Robot Flower's is going though. Non object fandom, I wanna say Riko from made in abyss has some amazing development,and in general the arc around Vueroeruko and Irumyuu was fucking insane. Sobbing immediately and violently.

L - Say something genuinely nice about a character who isn’t one of your faves.

Ugh. Candle is not a bitch and im mostly just uncomfortable with how close she is with silver and her chill attitude is Annoying to a certain degree. Cabby is Fine in the very late episodes and her friendship with yinyang is Nice. Non object related, uhh. uhhhh. idk i dont have any MAJOR hatred i think. or if i do it's so bad i Deleted them from my brain lmao.

S - Show us an example of your personal headcanon

Oh there's so many, I'll try to stay away from my super edgy ones You Know,but let's see. object specific, here's a handful,will just do objects here cuz easier:

test tube is a coffee nerd. She loves all the borderline sciencey work to pull a single shot of espresso. and she WILL get annoying about it if not stopped

Baseball and Cheesy both have braces

Knife is a big fan of kawaii shit and loves the color pink. After the dora incident he's less shy about having one or two little keychains or plushies.

Tree likes to smoke and is in his late 30s. I will Not elaborate,i just know I'm Correct.

T - Do you have any hard and fast headcanons that you will die defending?

some headcanons ill die defending are mostly darker ones,honestly. but i guess heres some misc. ones from multiple fandoms

- Julian (The Arcana) has BPD and i will never back off from that

- Kenny (south park) sometimes is cis and sometimes isn't,depending how his body regenerated after the latest death

- Yin and Yang (inanimate insanity) have an extremely codependent fucked up relationship

- Rick (Rick & Morty) is bilingual and can speak spanish perfectly. Yes i know this is basically canon but goddamn if the show NEVER brings it up. Im salty about this.

W - A trope which you are virtually certain to hate in any fandom.

Any fucking barista/florist/whatever the fuck AU. you people are boring,jesus. And poorly done Enemies to Lovers (ENEMIES ARE EQUALS) or Bully/Victim ships portrayed as good (toxic dynamics can stay tho)

Z - Just ramble about something fan-related, go go go!

Bro I'm tired,, but i wanna talk about fandom in general and how fucking annoying it is that people are always going for wholesome and pure and fluffy and like. yes that's fine and all but i miss when fandom was owned by the freaks. I feel like even the concept of fandom has gone far FAR too mainstream and it's annoying as all hell. It's difficult to not want to just live in a little corner. Also people treat writers and artists like fucking. content machines and it sucks so much. people used to establish friendships over this but now even requests are BARELY polite. Bleh. Also bring the kinkmeme livejournals back

#vi tag #long post //#ooo boy #ask game

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cookiesandcantarella · 2 years

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You’re in his DMs, I’m dooming countless worlds to suffer because I can’t bear to watch him die. We are not the same.

#back to jonblogging #guess who listened to 200 again #if someone has done this meme with this scene I’m sorry I either didn’t see it or don’t remember #ANYWAYS DO YOU EVER THING ABOUT JON.. JON HOW HE OH MY GOD HOW HE AAAAAHHHHHHH #T-T #he was willing to betray martin lie to everyone to do what he thought was right #right up until he realized martin wasn’t leaving him and he would have to watch him die right in his arms GOD #who’s excited for one year since our last jonmartin!??#I miss them…….#tma spoilers #mag 200 #lea talks

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dickwheelie · 3 years

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This is a little specific so feel free to give it a pass if you're not into it, but would you like to like to do season 2 Lunch Date Era jonmartin with the 'friendly hugs' prompt? Thank you, and have a good day!

specific prompts are actually really nice, they give me something solid to work off of, so this was actually perfect! I had a lot of fun writing this one. thank you and enjoy, anon!

____________

Jon can't stop bouncing his leg.

He keeps forgetting that he's doing it, and then noticing again, and then forcibly stopping himself, but it never lasts long. The cafe is crowded and loud, which is distracting enough on its own, but Martin is also there, sitting across from him and tucking into a sandwich, gamely trying to engage Jon in conversation even though Jon keeps getting distracted and bouncing his leg.

"Jon? You there?"

Martin's voice fades back into Jon's awareness, and he shifts his gaze back to him. "Sorry," he says for the fifth time that lunch hour, "um, say that again?"

He feels bad. He does. Ever since he found out about Martin's CV, Jon's been kicking himself over how paranoid he'd been, thinking that Martin was out to get him, shouting at him over what turned out to be nothing. Jon doesn't want to be that sort of boss, that sort of person, but he'd just been so overwhelmed. He could hardly believe it when Martin asked him to join him for lunch, after all the things Jon's said to him. Still, he's grateful for the olive branch. It's too bad he keeps messing it up by forgetting to listen to Martin when he talks.

Speaking of--

"Oh, damn," Jon mutters, interrupting whatever it is Martin is trying to tell him. "Martin, god, I'm so sorry, I just got--"

"Distracted?" Martin says, and to Jon's surprise he doesn't seem annoyed, just . . . concerned. "I've noticed. Jon, are you feeling alright?"

"What? Yes, I'm fine." Jon eats the last few bites of his salad so he doesn't have to meet Martin's eyes.

"Sure? Because you seem really anxious." Martin's voice has that soft, worried lilt to it that Jon used to get annoyed by. It doesn't bother him so much anymore. It's . . . sort of nice, really, to be worried over, sometimes.

Not now, though. Because right now Jon doesn't need to be worried over. "I'm not anxious. Just . . . it's distracting in here. It's loud."

"Oh, well, let's go then," Martin says, finishing up his sandwich and standing up to gather his coat. "It's not too cold out. We can walk around downtown until lunch hour is over."

"I--" Jon wants to protest, but he realizes that yes, getting out of this small cafe would be very welcome. "That's . . . that's a good idea, actually."

His leg can't bounce when he's walking, and the early winter air is cold but not biting, and the walkways aren't crowded. Jon can feel himself calming down by the time they get a block away from the cafe. Maybe he had been a little anxious, after all. This was a very good idea. Martin has very good ideas, he thinks.

"If that cafe was too much," Martin is telling him, and thankfully Jon is actually able to listen to him now, "there's another place we could try next time. New Indian place, right around the corner from the Institute. Tim says he goes there whenever he has a PT appointment, to treat himself."

Jon wants to go back to the fact that Martin wants there to be a next time, but for now there's something more pressing to address. "Tim's still doing physical therapy?" he says. He'd thought he was finished weeks ago.

"Yeah, he says it's just follow-up appointments. He's mostly okay, they just need to make sure he's improving, I guess." Martin shoots him a sidelong look. "I thought you and he were close."

"Not, um . . . not so much anymore." Jon stuffs his hands into his coat pockets, ducking into his collar. "We don't really . . . talk."

"Oh," Martin says. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." Jon doesn't want to get into it. Thankfully, Martin doesn't press the issue.

"Are you still going to PT?" Martin says instead. "You don't have to tell me, obviously. I just . . . I never see you outside the archives anymore."

Jon bites the inside of his cheek. "I, um . . . I sort of . . . stopped going. After the second appointment."

Martin stops short in the middle of the sidewalk, and Jon has to double back. "Christ, Jon!" he says, not angry, but aggravated. "You can't just skip out on that stuff, you could do permanent damage--"

"Martin, I'm fine," Jon says. "See, I'm walking around and everything. Trust me, if it was bad, I'd have kept going, but the whole thing was a waste of time and I had work to get done--"

"Your health comes first," Martin says, with finality, before his demeanor softens. "I'm not an idiot, Jon, I notice you staying late and coming in early, I notice when you skip meals. You're running yourself ragged. It's a job, Jon, and trust me, I know how important this work is, I get it, but none of it, alright, none of it's more important than you."

Jon blinks at him. He wants to protest, but every half-formed rebuttal sounds either defensive or outright silly. Martin is right, after all. Jon just wishes that he weren't, because then he wouldn't have to reevaluate everything he's been doing for the past two months.

Martin goes on, taking a step closer to him. "Just . . . you don't need to keep throwing yourself at a wall, Jon. At least give yourself a break every once in a while."

"I can't just walk away, Martin. O-Or, I don't--" Jon's voice has gone shaky. He clears his throat and tries again. "I--I don't really know how. There's just . . . there's so much, and I don't know where any of it leads, if it's leading anywhere at all, and . . . I just . . . I've no idea what I'm supposed to do about all of it."

Martin gives him a look that Jon doesn't know how to place. It's not pity, or condescension, which Jon would expect from most everyone else. He just looks . . . sort of sad. His hands are clasped in front of his chest, tugging restlessly on his fingers. "Jon, would you . . . um, that is . . ." Suddenly Martin thrusts his open arms out towards Jon and blurts out, "Would you like a hug?"

Jon's speechless. What a thing to be asked, he thinks, and especially by a coworker, no matter how well they know each other, it's completely unprofessional, and even if Martin were his closest friend, which he isn't, but even if he were, why on earth would Jon of all people need a hug? Sure, he's not doing all that great, but Martin doesn't need to know that, and anyway how is a hug supposed to fix anything, especially a hug from someone who doesn't know the half of what Jon's been going through lately, or how scared and confused he's been, or about Jon's very serious problems that are complicated and terrifying and can't be fixed with something as childish and simple as a--

"Yes, please," Jon says, the words coming out in an exhale of pent-up tension, and he all but collapses into Martin's open arms. His face lands just under Martin's chin, half-tucked into his shoulder, and he's just barely able to wrap his arms around Martin's midsection as Martin hugs him back tightly, squeezing him against his chest, and Jon had never known how strong Martin was, how much he had been hiding beneath those soft jumpers of his. His arms, all muscle beneath fat, feel as though they could fight off an army if they really wanted to, and despite his nagging paranoia, Jon can't help but feel utterly protected by them. He feels himself relaxing, bit by bit, sinking into the softness of Martin's chest, letting him hug him closer, just tight enough to be secure without hurting. As he leans into the hug, he doesn't feel any concern about Martin losing his grip or slipping backwards. Martin can take his weight; he knows this. He is as solid and reliable as a wall, and just as stubborn, and he will not drop Jon. Jon lets out a deep sigh, his breaths evening out and slowing, tension seeping from his limbs until he feels entirely relaxed. He feels cared for. He feels safe. It's been so, so long since he's felt safe.

He doesn't even notice that he's closed his eyes until Martin's arms shift around him, and Jon realizes they've been hugging for probably way longer than is normal. His eyes snap open and he backs off, hands sliding away from Martin, clearing his throat awkwardly. He tries not to miss the gentle security of Martin's arms.

"Um," Martin says, sounding like he's about to apologize, but Jon interrupts him.

"Thank you," he says, trying to keep his voice even. "That was--I, um. I needed that." When was the last time he'd hugged someone? Jon can't even remember. "It was really nice," he says quietly. Another one of Martin's brilliant ideas.

Martin nods, looking relieved, and perhaps a little fond, though it may just be Jon's imagination. "Anytime," he says, and Jon thinks he might mean it. He hopes he does. "What are friends for, eh?"

Jon blinks. Are they friends? How long has that been the case? He looks at Martin, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, a small smile on his face, and he thinks that yes, maybe they are friends. It would be nice to be friends, anyway. If Martin says they're friends, Jon won't correct him. "Yeah," he says, and he's very glad to see Martin's face brighten at the word. "I, um," and Jon needs to clear his throat again, "I-I'll try. To have a break once in a while."

"Promise?" Martin says, and Jon can't help but laugh.

"I promise."

Martin nods. "Okay. Good."

"This, today, lunch I mean, this was nice. I'd . . . um. I'd like to do it again."

"Oh! Um, sure. Definitely," Martin says, smiling.

"We can go to that Indian place," Jon says.

"Sure," Martin says. "Tomorrow?" His look is hesitant, but Jon's answer is immediate.

"Yes," he says, letting a smile run over his lips. "Yes, Martin, I'd like that very much."

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

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For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #ask #anon #this got so incredibly long... i hope you like it!#my writing #my fic

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voiceless-terror · 3 years

Note

#21 and #46 for kiss prompts, maybe? I can't get enough your writing tbf

kiss on a dare- a little jonmartin season one fluff <3 All in all, this is one of Tim’s better Friday nights.

It’s been ages since Jon’s hung out with them, and never with Martin along for the ride. The Archives had been off to a messy start after the Dog Incident and Jon’s subsequent panic over the state of the place. What used to be an ‘every couple of weeks’ tradition turned into an almost-never one as the newly-assembled team got buried under more and more boxes of dusty statements. He’s pretty astounded that Jon agreed to dinner and drinks- although it’s a Friday night, Jon’s been apt to stay weekends more often than not. He figured if he arranged for it at one of theirs instead of a pub, Jon would be more likely to come. He always preferred less crowded settings.

No, the real feat was getting him to come knowing Martin was invited.

Jon’s been getting...better around him, that’s true. He was perfectly fine at his birthday party, going off about emulsifiers for a solid fifteen minutes. Tim’s always been rather fond of Jon’s infodumping, and if he’s comfortable enough to do it around Martin that must be a good sign. Despite an initial freeze-out, he now thanks Martin for his tea and saves his most pointed comments for Martin’s more egregious screw-ups (and even those have less bite than usual). Still, a colleague does not a friend make, and Jon’s never been good at opening up to people he doesn’t know all that well. However, Jon just nodded at the Martin caveat, seemingly not giving it a second thought. And Martin didn’t seem all that worried either.

Whatever, Tim’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He’s just happy they’re all here, having a good time. It’s late and Jon’s had enough wine to keep a smile on his face. He missed that. It’s nice how easily they slot together, even with all of the upheaval and a new addition. Martin himself isn’t so shy after a drink or two, more willing to engage in banter and keep the conversation going. This is what it should be like all the time, Tim thinks. Shitty archive job or not.

It’s when they retire to the living room, drinks in hand, that he finally notices the little grin on Sasha’s face. And Tim, knowing exactly what that means, is both a little afraid and excited. Four-drink-Sasha has always been a host unto herself.

“Why don’t,” she begins, a hiccup interrupting her as she slumps into an armchair. Tim snickers and ignores the glare this earns him. “Why don’t we play one of our old games-”

Tim raises a glass in agreement as Jon, predictably, groans. Martin looks quizzically between them. Ah yes, time for your initiation, Marto! Not that they’ve played this in about a year or so, of course, but it's always fun to revisit the good old days.

“Seriously? We’re not children-”

Tim gives Jon a playful slap on the back that sends him flying forward on the couch, spilling a bit of wine on Sasha’s rug. He hopes she doesn’t notice. “C’mon, it’ll be fun, boss! Nothing like it to break the ice, and there’s definitely some ice that needs breaking.”

Martin blinks, hand tightening on his glass. He looks nervous, like he always does when he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on. Which is a shame, because he’s been so nice and open all night. Even chatting with Jon. “Sorry, what are you talking about?”

Jon rolls his eyes, giving Martin a commiserating look. “Truth or dare.”

Martin lets out a disbelieving laugh, relaxing minutely. “Wait, really?”

“Yes, really.” Jon’s foot reaches out to shove at Tim’s leg. “Tim loves pulling ridiculous stunts-”

“-Hey, you loved the karaoke idea-”

“You sing?”

“No.” Tim would dispute that, but the look on Jon’s face declares it a bad idea. “And Sasha likes to ask probing questions.”

Sasha preens, though the remark was certainly not meant as a compliment. “What can I say, I’m the Queen of Truth-”

Tim snorts. “Hacking and blackmail more like-”

“Anyway-” Sasha sings out as Tim dodges a pillow to the face. “Tim….truth or-”

“Dare, always dare.”

“You’re absolutely no fun,” Sasha pouts, though it doesn’t take long for her eyes to narrow in thought. There’s very little Tim won’t do, but that’s a dangerous look. “I dare you...to text…”

“Text? You can do better than that, Sash.”

“Text...Elias.” That’s more like it.

Jon immediately scowls. “Tim, no-”

“I don’t have his number-”

“I do-”

“Sasha!”

“Jon, it’ll be fine! He’ll just say ‘oops, wrong number’ afterwards, no harm, no foul-”

Tim takes this time to snatch at Sasha’s phone, sitting precariously on the arm of her chair. She doesn’t notice, too busy gesturing at Jon empathically. He scrolls through her contact list.

“And then it’ll come down on me-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “How is he going to connect it to you? It’s not like he knows we’re all together-”

“Done!” Tim tosses the phone back onto the couch with a little grin. Sasha blinks, looking down in confusion.

“Wait, that’s mine-”

The screech and smack on the arm at Tim’s hastily fired off ‘u up? ;)’ to Elias Bouchard were definitely deserved. He’s sure he’ll face consequences for that in the near future, but Jon and Martin’s immediate laughter had been well worth it. Shouldn’t dish it if you can’t take it, that’s Tim’s motto.

In the next round, Tim manages to get Martin to confess to his poetry-writing habit, an admission that has him turning an attractive shade of red. Jon just giggles quietly to himself as Martin reads through one of his poorer attempts at rhyme saved to the notes of his mobile. Tim watches the two of them; Martin keeps looking up at Jon throughout it all like he’s the only one in the room and god, his crush is so evident and yet Jon is oblivious, smiling at him like he’s not on the receiving end of some of the most loaded glances of all time.

Martin gets Sasha to admit to her most recent perusal through confidential institute records, which turned out to be previous archival expenses (solely to find out what Elias would cover with their new jobs, of course). At first glance, there wasn’t much in the way of extravagant meals or supplies, but a bit more digging had her finding Gertrude’s extensive travel budget. For an old woman, she certainly was a globe-trotter.

“All I’m saying, Jon, is that we could definitely do with a trip to China-”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to ask Elias about Gertrude’s trip to China, something I certainly shouldn’t know about, and he’ll have to let us go.”

“Refill?” Martin’s on his feet, taking Jon’s wine glass in his hand and Tim watches as their fingers brush- go Martin!- and yet Jon just nods his thanks, completely oblivious to the seduction taking place before him. Tim’s given it some thought and honestly, he thinks they’d make a cute couple. An odd pair, for sure, but Jon’s so soft once you get to know him, and Martin’s one of the funniest, sweetest guys he knows. They could be good for each other.

“Well, I still think it’s worth a try.” Sasha’s eyes are starting to blink heavily - she’ll be out for the count tonight, for sure. “Anyway, it’s your turn. I dare you-”

“I didn’t even pick!” Jon says, though he doesn’t seem too put out by it. This is the Jon Martin should know, the easy-humored, smiling man sprawled out before him. He’s even taken his little sweater vest and tie off, looking more like the familiar friend from research Tim knows so well. It warms his heart.

“Fine. Truth or dare?”

“Dare, I suppose. Seeing as how you already have one queued up.”

“I dare you to...to...to give a little kiss to someone in this room.” She waves her glass around imperiously. “Anyone you like.”

Silence. Tim gives Sasha a warning look that she ignores. She’s well in her cups, and he supposes any sense of propriety has gone out the window along with her sobriety. He’s actually seen Jon give quite a few kisses on a particularly memorable New Years Eve, but that was a different time. He doesn’t want him to feel pressured, not when he’s just starting to open back up.

“Jon doesn’t have to if he doesn’t want to-”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Oh come on, you remember-”

“It doesn’t matter- Jon, you can skip this one if you like, we can think of something else-”

“Tim, it’s alright.” Jon puts a hand on his arm to stop the argument, and there’s a strange look in his eyes that can’t be attributed to liquor. It’s mock-serious, almost playful paired with his little sly smile. He thinks for a moment that Jon’s going to lean in and kiss him but instead he gets up from the sofa in a smooth motion and walks across the room to Martin, who’s just turned around with two glasses in hand. He freezes in place as Jon gets on his very tippy toes, takes his face in both hands, and kisses him.

Jonathan Sims. Kissing Martin Blackwood. Against a kitchen counter. Martin Blackwood, who, once he’s over his surprise, puts the drinks down behind him and kisses right the hell back, arms winding around Jon’s waist like they belong there.

What. The. Fuck.

_____

“The leg bit was a nice touch.”

“Hmm?” Jon’s in Martin’s lap, sprawled out on his couch back at his own flat, eyes closed in contentment as he leans back against the other man’s chest. Martin’s got one hand in his hair, and the other entwined with Jon’s, twirling the black ring on his finger. It’s heavenly.

“Thought you were trying to climb me.”

“Well, you usually pick me up at that point, make it easier.”

“Sorry, next time.” Kissing Jon’s always fun but kissing him out in the open, in front of their friends? Was that something they could do now? “Should we tell them we’ve been dating for two months?”

Two whole months since that night in Document Storage when Jon had finally let his guard down. When Martin had held him in his arms. Jon was very particular about keeping up appearances, though that all seemed to have crumbled tonight. Sasha rather fashioned herself a matchmaker, and Jon didn’t do anything to dissuade the fact. It’d been nice, having their relationship to themselves, the secret of it, the obliviousness of their friends who still thought Jon only tolerated him. It’s not that he wanted to keep it that way, of course, but it was nice while they were still figuring it out.

“If you’d like. Maybe it’s time.” Jon tilts his head back, giving Martin a fond look. “Though I know how much you enjoy playing the lovesick fool-”

“There’s something so poetic about unrequited love, yknow?”

“All the more when it’s requited, I’d say.” Martin couldn’t argue with that. He leans down to give Jon’s forehead a peck.

“Hmm. Give it a few more weeks. Act out the honeymoon phase for a bit, it’ll be fun.”

And when Jon squeezes his hand and smiles back, Martin thinks he won’t need to do much acting at all.

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31318724

#tma #the magnus archives #my writing #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #fluff #kiss prompts #i have a little backstory to how they got together in this one that maybe one day i will write #but heres a lil something something #jonmartin secret dating is fun okay #v enjoyable #jaybirdsfall #reblogs appreciated <3

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waddup-its-homegirl · 3 years

Text

[ARCHIVAL ASSISTANTS ARGUING OVER SHIP NAMES FOR ARCHIVIST AND MARTIN]

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

SASHA: I like the sound of Jonmartin.

TIM: That’s too long, what about Jmart?

SASHA: LIKE THE AMERICAN SUPERMARKET?

TIM: WHY do you know so much about American supermarkets?

SASHA: Does it matter? I guess you could just keep calling them that, mine just sounds better

[ELIAS SLINKS IN AND LEANS ON THE DOOR LIKE THE EVIL ANIME VILLAIN HE IS]

ELIAS: Martchivist.

TIM: How long have you been-

SASHA: Wait, why would you name it after his position here and not him?

ELIAS: Oh, perhaps one day you’ll understand Miss James. Or not.

[ELIAS CHUCKLES SLYLY]

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

[WE JUMP AHEAD TO ARCHIVIST’S COMA. MARTIN AND PETER LUCAS ARE IN THE ARCHIVES]

[TAPE CLICKS ON]

MARTIN: You know, it was a bit unnecessary and sometimes just a bit downright mean sometimes, but I miss Tim and Sasha’s bizzare discussions, like, this one time they were discussing what the name would be if me and Jon had—

[MARTIN IS INCREDIBLY FLUSTERED]

MARTIN: well, what they would have called us if we’d, y’know—

PETER: Lonelyeyes

MARTIN: W-what?

PETER: Specifically because the two of you remind me so much of me and Elias when we met, which is why it is so important that you stay away from Jon. You must realize how important our work is. Look, can we just not talk about this? You know how I uncomfortable I am talking to others.

[TAPE CLICKS OFF]

#yes this post is a nightmare #but I’m exhausted and I think I’m hilarious #tma #jmart #jonmartin #archival assistants #also I’m just writing more timsasha banter because I miss my favorite bi4bi couple #timsasha #tma fic

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nebulous-frog · 2 years

Text

As you are

Relationships: JonMartin (pre-relationship)

Summary: Jon has lost so much, but maybe that's not what defines him.

Word Count: 821

Written for @jonmartinweek Day 6: Lost and Found

Link to AO3 Fics Masterlist

When Jon wakes up from his coma, he has nothing. His belongings from before the Unknowing had already dwindled thanks to his stint as a murder suspect on the run and his travels all across America, but now Basira says what little he’d had in the Archives has gone to charity shops. Even what he’d had with him during the Unknowing was gone, lost in the explosion and the aftermath.

Now, returning to the Archives, he knows he’s lost even more- Martin, who apparently is now working for the very entity of isolation, and Tim, who he probably had lost long before the Unknowing.

The Institute had continued paying him during his coma, thankfully. The one thing the Institute does right by their employees is paid time off for injuries sustained during on-the-job apocalypse prevention. With the money, Jon is able to purchase some essentials to replace his phone, clothes, and toiletries. He’s never been one for luxuries, really, but especially not now. It all just seems rather pointless.

And so he continues on, getting right back to work. What else can he do? He quite literally doesn’t have any options. He desperately tries to get his footing after everything, always hoping Martin will finally just talk to him again.

A month after his return, long after he’d given up on Martin initiating any contact, he receives a small package on his desk along with a note:

I know you lost your old one and, knowing you, you haven’t bothered to replace it. I think this is the same as the other one, but if not- or if you don’t like it- there’s a gift receipt. You’re still Jon. -MKB

Jon’s eyes well up with tears. It doesn’t exactly sound like Martin- it’s too short and doesn’t even have an exclamation point- but at the same time, Jon can practically hear Martin saying it to him. God, he misses him.

After a moment, Jon sniffs, regains his composure, and turns his attention to the package.

It’s a black box, small, clearly a ring box. Jon opens it and gasps. Inside is a thin black band, no frills or decoration. Reverently, he lifts it from the box and slides it onto his left middle finger and chokes back a sob when it fits perfectly.

What feels like a lifetime ago, he’d told Martin he was asexual. Martin had been re-wrapping Jon’s burnt hand for him, listening oh so attentively, as Jon stumbled through his explanation and finally got to the point. “Given the position of the burn, I can’t wear my ace ring anymore,” he had said in a resigned sigh. “It’s supposed to be a black ring on the right middle finger, but it hurts to even try putting it on. I doubt the scarring will ever allow for it.” Jon breathed in a measured, careful breath, trying to hold back tears. He hadn’t realized this upset him so much. “It’s just-” he huffed, then started again. “My- choices, my life, my well-being, it’s all been- taken. Lost. And now- something so core to who I am, something the monsters can’t change or cut or burn out of me- it’s. It’s still here, but it feels like it’s gone when I can’t wear the ring.”

Martin hummed sympathetically as he finished the wrappings. “I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon sighed. “It’s- it’s not your fault. But thank you, Martin.”

Martin nodded. “Sorry if I’m- if I’m overstepping, or showing how little I know about this, but- what if you wore it on the other hand?”

Jon blinked, then swiped his unburnt hand over one eye, catching what would’ve otherwise been a tear. “That’s the wrong hand, though.”

“Well- yes, traditionally it sounds like it is. But is it all about the hand, or is it about the ring?”

“I- I guess it’s more… symbolic,” Jon muttered, brow furrowed as he thought. “And it’s just for me, not someone else.”

“Plus, as you say, you feel like your choices have been dictated to you. Your asexuality is still a part of you, you’re still Jon, even without the ring at all, but you can choose how that looks in your life.”

Jon nodded slowly, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his ring. He played with it in his palm for a moment, deep in thought as Martin packed away the first aid kit. Finally, he slipped it on his left middle finger and smiled faintly

“Still Jon,” he whispered to himself.

In the present, Jon clenched his left hand into a fist and wrapped the other around it, gently stroking the ring with his thumb.

He’d lost so much and was certain to lose more. Maybe this ring Martin must have searched for for ages would be lost, too, and maybe Martin would be lost completely soon. But Jon was still Jon, and he wouldn’t let anything else go without a fight.

#tma #jmart #the magnus archives #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin week 2022

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ashes-in-a-jar · 3 years

Text

And I Owe it All to You

Hello! This is a fic I wrote based on @speakerunfolding 's wonderful Jonmartin scottish cabin comic which I couldn't stop looking at.

I wrote this while watching Dirty Dancing for the first time in many years. Quite an experience xD

Summary: It's a night in for Jon and Martin in the cabin and they decide to pop out the wine.

Rated: T

Word count: 2.2K

Tw: alcohol, drinking and being slightly drunk, minor injuries

Maybe it was the fact that neither of them had gone out much in the past few months. Maybe the Fears prefer their avatars lightweight. Maybe Scottish alcohol tended to be stronger than English alcohol. But the sparkling wine they bought on a whim at the village store shouldn't have had the effect on them that it did.

Having emptied two cups each (Jon was actually drinking out of a mug, since they found only one wine glass, and he conceded the honor of feeling classy to Martin) they have already become giggling messes over some dumb joke regarding one Peter Lukas and a computer that refused to boot.

It wasn't even that funny. But there they were, acting like complete fools leaning against each other on the couch, legs propped up in a completely uncomfortable position on the small living room table (dangerously close to the now nearly empty bottle), holding their cups precariously in one hand and holding hands with the other.

And enjoying every moment of it.

The giggling subsided. They took a moment of comfortable silence to regain their breath and enjoy another sip.

"Can't believe he didn't know he could just u-unplug and replug the whole thing. Even I know that." Jon's speech was ever so slightly slurred, his leftover wine sloshing in his cup.

Martin hummed and then snorted.

"Jon, you barely know how to do that either. I had to teach you how to open new tabs in the same internet window for christ's sake."

"It was a new laptop! All of the buttons were in the wrong p-place." Jon protested weakly, starting to hiccup.

"Sure."

"Prick." Jon nudged him fondly. "You underestimate my vast knowledge of 'modern' things."

Martin snorted again. "Modern, you say?"

"Yes Martin, what do you take me for?"

"An old geezer." Martin tousled his hair gently. Jon leaned into the touch. Then, the words sunk in.

"Hey! Why do you and Georgie keep thinking that? I can know pop culture!"

"Oh yeah? Tell me, what do you know?"

"Uh..." Jon struggled to straighten himself, which resulted in actually sliding further off the couch. "Um...I know S-Star Wars! And uh, Matrix? I think. I've seen it once. Oh! That, that dinosaur movie! And... Titanic?" He finished unconvincingly.

Martin looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Really, Jon? You're just naming movies now. And not even new ones. Did you actually watch any of those?"

Jon avoided his gaze "I... I may have fallen asleep during uh, during some of these?"

Martin gave him a long look.

"Yes alright, I fell asleep in all of them."

Martin huffed "Thought so".

Jon gave up trying to salvage his dignity, taking a final long gulp from his mug, a small drop trickling down his chin. Martin swiped it away, absent-mindedly licking his finger, not noticing as Jon hiccuped, his face heating up considerably.

"I-I did like the Princess Bride though— that was a nice film, if a bit sensational."

"Hang on. You watched the Princess Bride? And liked it?" Martin asked, incredulous.

"I'm allowed to like things, Martin. B-besides, Georgie made me watch it. Said it was a- a core staple of cinema history o-or something."

"Oh yeah? Did she make you watch those other movies as well?" Martin asked casually, swirling the liquid in his cup.

"Unfortunately yes. She would cruelly shake me awake when I finally managed to get some shut-eye for once in my life. I-it's not my fault the only times I could sleep normally were during those, those damn films! She woke me up for that ridiculous scene with the, uh, the bullets in the Matrix. And that lifting scene in that unseemly dancing movie."

"What lifting scene?"

"That movie with all of the dancing? Th-the one where he lifts her at the end in the middle of the crowd with that song? At least, uh, at least I think there was a lot of dancing, I wasn't actually, hmmm... Focused at the time."

"Oh my god Jon, do you mean Dirty Dancing? You fell asleep during Dirty Dancing?" Martin's delighted incredulity was plain on his face.

Jon scrunched up his nose. "That's the name of the film? Good thing I fell asleep then."

"Jesus Jon. That's incredible, good on Georgie! Heh, at least you woke up for that scene. It's iconic, you know."

"Yes, yes." Jon waved at him dismissively, reaching unsteadily for the wine bottle. Martin gently took it away from Jon and with a much steadier hand, poured the remaining bit of wine into his mug.

"Thank you Martin," Jon mumbled into the cup.

Another warm silence fell on them, lulling Jon into a half drunken stupor. He nearly threw his cup in the air when Martin's words startled him back into awareness.

"I can do that scene you know, that lifting part." He was looking intently at his glass.

"R-really?" Jon hiccuped. "How?"

"I… I had a boyfriend who wanted to try it. So we did. Turns out that I'm good at balancing large things that aren't stacks of paper."

Jon hummed. He suddenly imagined very vividly Martin lifting someone else in that way and felt a pang in his chest. What was that?

Another beat of silence.

"Do. Do you want to try?"

"W-what?"

"Do you want to do that lifting scene with me? I'm sure I could lift you." Martin suddenly sat up, his tone excited and anticipating. He looked at Jon.

Jon shifted. "Uh, I-I guess it's fine? Sure."

"Okay! Let's do it then!" Martin got up on his feet, swaying ever so slightly.

Jon looked up at him surprised. "W-wait, now? Shouldn't we wait? You know, to be less uh, inebriated? Don't you need to see the scene again for a reminder?"

"Mmm. We don't have reception so I can't exactly watch the scene again. But, but I'm pretty sure I can do it now, definitely sure! Come on." He held out his hand expectantly.

Jon took it, stumbling only a bit as he got up. Martin took out his phone .

"I might even have the song saved. Let me check."

A moment later he gave a whoop of success and the song began to play, filling the main space of the cabin with its soft, if slightly tinny sound.

Jon stretched, releasing the tension in his muscles. "All right Martin, where do you want me?"

"You need a bit of a running start, and then you need to jump high right as you reach my arms, so stand over there." He indicated towards the door of the bedroom.

"Right." Jon stumbled only once as he made his way towards the designated spot. Martin moved across the room stopping right near the kitchen door.

The song kept playing calmly in the background, slowly building up towards the upbeat chorus.

Jon looked at him again "I dunno Martin. A-are you sure?" He suddenly felt a bit more fuzzy than he did sitting down. He hiccuped again.

"Please Jon, you're thin as a rake. Have a little faith." His face wore that determined look that Jon couldn't help but love.

"Alright, as you wish." He grinned, proud of his clever reference as he took his stance.

Martin rolled his eyes as well as his sleeves. "Steady on Westley, this is the part."

Jon felt a rush of excitement as he caught Martin's enthusiasm. "Ready?" He asked, bouncing a little on his feet in preparation.

"Ready." Martin crouched a little, holding out his arms.

As the chorus neared Jon, with a wild drunken energy, took his running start, jumping up as he reached Martin, grabbing on to his shoulders for support. Martin firmly gripped Jon's hips, bent his legs and with a strained grunt lifted Jon in the air as the song reached a crescendo.

Jon was flying.

He laughed giddily, stretching out his arms in elation.

As Martin continued holding him in his strong grip he looked down at his beautiful boyfriend. Despite the exertion, Martin looked up with the softest expression as the song kept playing for them in the background.

For a moment everything was perfect.

And then Martin leaned backwards a bit too far.

In hindsight, they should have known this would happen. While Martin was better at hiding it, he was as drunk as Jon. And Jon's already impeded balance certainly didn't help.

As they went down, Jon idly wondered if they could also recreate the rest of the dance if they practiced. And then he hit his nose on the floor.

After a moment of stunned silence the pain rushed in and Jon grunted.

Turns out that while most of him was protected from the fall by Martin's soft and sturdy body, his knee also missed the mark and crashed into the floor as well.

Muffled by Jon's body above him, Martin squirmed. "Ugh, Jon, are you okay?"

When Jon didn't respond, Martin groaned and picked himself off the floor, lifting Jon in the process.

"Oh my god, Jon! You're bleeding!"

Jon's face throbbed. And so did his knee. His hazy drunken state began fading away as the pain sharpened.

"I-I think I hit something."

"I'm so sorry Jon! God, where are the tissues?" Seemingly having sobered up considerably, Martin picked Jon up and carried him bodily into the bathroom. Jon allowed all of this to happen as the shock of the fall dissipated. He let Martin easily lift him onto the sink counter as he shoved a towel into his hands.

"Hold it against your nose while I... Jesus, your knee too?" He stepped back now hurriedly lifting the stained pant leg to reveal the damage.

"God, Jon I'm so sorry. Hold still, I'm going to find the first aid kit. We shouldn't have done this. This was a complete disaster."

He kept muttering irritably as he walked away. Jon sighed and pressed the towel to his throbbing nose. His foggy mind still felt as though it was trying to catch up to the recent chain of events. He spoke slowly, attempting to convey himself with clarity.

"Martin, it's fine. Honestly, I think we both know I've had worse-"

"You nearly broke your bloody neck! God, where's that goddamn kit." He shouted from across the cabin as Jon heard the rattling of drawers being forcefully pulled open.

"Martin, please I-I'm okay. It's just a little bit of bruising. It honestly already feels better."

And it actually did. In the chaos after the fall, they both forgot Jon's... situation. Jon watched as the cut on his knee slowly closed up, leaving only the drying stain of blood behind. The pain in his nose was slowly vanishing as well.

By the time Martin came back holding the bag, Jon already put down the towel and was tentatively poking at the previously bruised spot.

Martin stopped in front of him, looking at him with a mixture of emotions Jon couldn't parse out. He smiled at Martin hesitantly.

"See? Good as new. No harm no foul, I say."

Martin let out a long suffering sigh and took the towel out of Jon's hands. He quietly dampened it in the sink and stepped closer to gently pat at his face.

Jon looked at him. This close he could practically count his faded freckles, follow every line and trace every mark that was so beautifully Martin. He let himself smile.

"I must say, I'm quite impressed by your strength, if we weren't so inebriated, I'm sure you could have kept me up there for quite a while," he said quietly, enjoying the fluttering touches.

"It wasn't because I was drunk." Martin muttered.

"Pardon?"

"I said it wasn't because I was drunk that I dropped you," he said a little louder, oddly flustered. "I was looking at... At you. You just looked... I dunno, happy, I guess? I just never seen that expression on you before and it..." He trailed off, concentrating intently on Jon's knee, finishing up cleaning up the blood.

"M-Martin, look at me. Please look up here." Jon gently tugged at his shoulders to pull him up. At this height, sitting on the counter, he actually came face to face with Martin, seeing his blush and ruffled expression right in front of him as opposed to slightly above him like he normally did

He lifted his palms to bracket Martin's warm cheeks.

"There you are," he whispered and leaned in for a quick kiss. He then leaned back slightly. "You know that I'm perfectly happy. Here with you. Y-you know that, right?"

Martin looked at him for a few moments, then smiled. "Yeah, I do."

"Good. Now, help me down so we can clean up the wine stain, which I'm sure is growing on the carpet right now."

"Wha- oh," Martin said as he turned to see the fallen glass that apparently toppled during the mayhem.

"Yeah. Let me down?" Jon said again, holding out his arms.

Martin turned back to him, a teasing expression on his face. "As you wish."

Jon groaned and allowed himself once again to be pulled, secretly enjoying Martin's burst of giggles as they both walked back into the crime scene that was their drunken night in.

All things considered, it was a pretty good night.

#Ahhhh i had so much fun writing this #While watching the movie itself xD #I hope you like it!#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #fabric rustles #tma fic #My tma fic #Tma art #I guess #Because its based on it so

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