Rewind
Fandom: The Magnus Archives
Pairing: JonMartin
Summary: Jon doesn't have to listen to the tapes, but he thinks he's earned it.
Word Count: 3127
Warnings/Tags: Mild Angst, Pining, Missing Scene (MAG 129)
Author's Notes: I have ideas for continuation (if this gets any notes at all) but it's also the first fic I've written in two years, so... baby steps, I reckon.
Thanks so much to @ltleflrt for the beta! And help with the summary. And the title. XD Basically, thanks for ALL THE THINGS. Also, to @princessmisery666 for the Britpick. 💖
Also on AO3
The dim fluorescents overhead flickered when they worked at all, but after haunting those halls for over three years, Jon didn’t need to be The Archivist to navigate them as he was, head down, lost in consternation.
“What could he mean by it?” he muttered to himself. The sound was almost lost in the soft, quick shuffle of his loafers on the speckled lino, but he wouldn’t have heard it anyway. All he could hear was the conversation he’d just had with Martin, replaying in his mind over and over. He didn’t bother switching on the light when he reached his office and instead pulled out his desk chair, lowering himself into it to scowl, unseeing, into the darkened recesses of the room. The rusted springs beneath him complained as Jon leant forward and pressed his knuckles against his pursed lips.
Had Martin’s voice ever sounded like that before, he wondered? So…defeated?
“No. No, surely not,” Jon answered himself aloud. Martin was the most optimistic among them, always quick to point out the brighter side of whatever predicament they were in or assert confidence in some solution. Something significant must have happened to change that, Jon thought.
You died.
The words came unbidden to his mind, and Jon shook his head, trading the knuckles at his lips for a scarred palm as if to hold in the denial. It had to be more than that. It had to. There was no way Jon meant that much to him. Still, something had flattened the hopeful lilt of Martin’s speech, and Jon missed it. It was something he had taken for granted when he’d last had the opportunity to hear it.
It was not, he realised with a sour turn of his stomach, the only thing he’d taken for granted, or the only thing he missed, but he told himself he’d never wanted that fondness in Martin’s eyes in the first place. It wasn’t even a good lie, but it was more believable than trying to convince himself that sparkle had had nothing to do with him.
Jon had listened to the tape. He listened to all the tapes, but that one had made him feel soiled somehow in a way none of the others ever had, no matter how sensitive their contents might have been. For once, Jon had disliked being the voyeur, unequivocally, with no secret, shameful thrill. Listening to Elias tell Martin his mother did not love him might have been one of the most horrific things Jon had ever heard, and just remembering Martin’s sobs caused Jon’s breath to hitch in his chest. It made him even more ashamed of the tiny flutter that had risen in his stomach just before.
Well, I hope you’ve got something better than that pathetic dig at my feelings for Jon.
Jon sighed. He had known. Of course he’d noticed, he was hardly oblivious. In fact, he often saw too much, even before his…‘powers’ had set in, but not even the grip of paranoia had distorted that obvious truth. And yet, Jon had not allowed himself to entertain the notion in anything but passing, and he’d flatly refused to even briefly consider whether it was reciprocated. To do otherwise would have been irresponsible.
He was Martin’s boss, for Christ’s sake. Not that distinctions like that particularly mattered anymore. Or rather, he wouldn’t have let it stop him at that point. What was Lukas going to do? Write them up? Fire them? But that had never really been the reason for his dismissal of Martin’s interest, and Jon knew it.
No matter what Martin might think, no matter how Jon himself might have liked things to be otherwise, he was not the man Martin was looking for. Jon couldn’t give him what he was sure Martin must want from him, or at least, not as often as he’d have needed it.
Besides, after Georgie, Jon had promised himself he’d never be put in that situation again. He was weary of not being enough, of seeing the frustration and eventual coldness in the eyes of those he’d allowed himself to care about, no matter how they claimed to understand, no matter how often they assured him they didn’t mind. He was finished with adjusting his boundaries in compromise, again and again, until it seemed there were none at all and he felt miserable and used and ultimately couldn’t bear it any longer. In the end, it always just felt as if he’d wasted everyone’s time, souring cherished friendships for nothing. Which made him resent his present situation all the more.
Because, none of that was Martin’s fault, but…damn it, Jon hadn’t asked for Martin’s attention! And he’d certainly done nothing to encourage it. He had, in fact, attempted to dissuade him. Attempted to dissuade them both, if he were honest.
It’s baffling, really. Such loyalty to someone who really treats you very badly.
Jon winced, and the hand over his mouth rose to lift his glasses and pinch the bridge of his nose. His habit of keeping those around him at arm's length was old, as even passing interest was a danger. It made him aware of his loneliness, tempting him with possibilities Jon knew to be hollow but that made him yearn nonetheless. It was better to ensure the matter never arose in the first place. Unfortunately, he could be considered handsome by some, and so he counterbalanced that by being less than lovely as far as he could help it.
But he had, perhaps, taken it too far with Martin.
Jon could practically hear his ‘patron’ give a derisive snigger. Or was that his own conscience? The understatement was glaring and easily proven. Jon didn’t want to remember the words recorded on the cassettes in the box by his feet, but he did so anyway. The Eye, sensing weakness and ever eager for more suffering, forced the Knowledge on him despite his sincere effort to prevent it.
Well, then. If it wanted pain, that’s what he’d give it, he thought with a sneer. What was it Jude had said? Feed that which feeds him? If he couldn’t escape the words, he might as well listen to them properly. At least no innocents would be hurt this way.
Jon reached over and clicked on the brass lamp on the corner of his desk, and its chipped, antique glass shade filled the otherwise black room with an eerie emerald glow. Then, he reached down and lifted the box of cassettes to the top of his desk to rummage through it. He still kept the most sensitive ones under the floorboards, but the rest he made sure were easily to hand. They all mattered. They were all ‘real’, but some mattered more to him than others for reasons that had nothing to do with rituals or dark gods. Jon reached for the recorder with dread but little hesitation and slid the first tape into its deck. He fast forwarded, hitting the play button intuitively at the exact moment necessary to hear his own voice say, in tones thick with haughty dismissal:
Well, technically three, but I don’t count Martin as he’s unlikely to contribute anything but delays.
Jon closed his eyes against the sick feeling the comment caused him but still reached for the next tape, his hand finding it easily, no doubt directed there by his greedy patron. Again, he skipped the statement it contained, Knowing just when to hit play.
…at least it got Martin out of the Institute for an afternoon, which is always a welcome relief.
Jon cursed his past self and his failure to appreciate the gift of the other man’s presence, which he was missing so sorely at the moment.
He chose another.
…if Martin speaks Polish in the same way he “speaks Latin” then he might be talking nonsense again.
The next was laying on top of the pile as if by magic, making the transition to his next torment as effortless as possible.
…not that I want him to get chopped up, of course, but someone had to… Useless ass.
Jon hit the stop button harder than was necessary and sat with eyes scrunched and fists clenched. The silence rang with the sudden absence of his own recorded voice, making his pained breathing seem that much louder.
He didn’t need to listen to the tapes to be hurt by them, but he considered the self-flagellation well earned. Or perhaps it was masturbatory. He wasn’t entirely sure there was a difference, not for the masochistic, which, he thought wryly, he must certainly be. The matter was muddied further by his connection to Beholding.
After a moment, he reached back into the box, and his hand closed over Martin’s statement of his encounter with Jane Prentiss. Jon pulled it out and set the box aside. He knew it would do little to ease his guilt, but he still felt himself far too keen to hear Martin’s voice…as it had been.
Before.
With slightly more trepidation than the last, Jon placed the tape into the recorder and gently pressed play, listening from the very beginning. For a while, he merely savored the cadence and timbre of Martin's speech, his lips almost twitching into a smile at Martin’s graphic description of the first worm he ever encountered. But then…
I didn’t want to come back to you without due diligence. I’ve learned that lesson.
Martin’s nervous chuckle after made Jon wilt. He’d not forgotten the dressing down he’d given him after failing to turn up anything in the Rentoul case. It wasn’t even really Martin’s fault, but Jon had been tetchy after his meeting with Elias, warning him off investigating the Lukases. Jon sighed and turned his attention back to the recording.
I was heading home when I got to thinking, and I was worried I hadn’t really done enough investigation for you… So, I went back for another look.
He almost sounded as anxious talking about Jon as he did talking about Prentiss.
It was… faint, just a rustling, really. I didn’t want to check it out, I really didn’t. I’ve catalogued and looked into enough of these cases to know that following the noise is always a really, really bad idea, but… I mean… it’s my job, isn’t it?
Good Lord. Had Jon’s fussing really convinced him that he expected Martin to risk his life? For an office job?
The daft thing is I wasn’t even going to call anyone for help, I just wanted to take a picture of the thing. To prove to you that it happened. You’re always so quick to dismiss these statements and I wanted proof for you.
Jon couldn’t bear to hear anymore and gently pressed stop. His finger remained on the button, and he tapped it absently as he brooded. Martin had put himself in grievous danger all because he was afraid Jon would be cross. Or was it to gain favor? It didn’t matter. Jon was the reason Martin had abandoned his self-preservation instincts. He hadn’t trusted himself…because Jon had been undermining his confidence since the day he’d been accepted onto the archival team.
Jon remembered it clearly. The first time they’d met, Jon had seen the way Martin had looked at him, his freckles all but disappearing, and Jon’s returning blush had made him mentally recoil, immediately searching for things to dislike. It was a practice he turned into something of a habit over the following weeks, his list of complaints growing longer by the day.
Was Martin trying to be cute, he’d wondered, with his bashful, lopsided smile? It had to be put on. No one was that cheerful, that clumsily solicitous. Well, Jon, for one, did not find Martin’s gawkiness adorable, he’d told himself. No, this...this hulking ginger was not endearingly made. None of his traits seemed like they should work together. Nothing about him seemed to…fit. His voice was too small for his frame, as was (ever so slightly in the sleeves, at least) his shirt, which never quite covered his wrists. He was a ridiculous man, really, with his…his tea and his suspenders and his ‘poetry’. And the way he stumbled over his words and his feet whenever he was in Jon’s presence…
Jon crossed his arms on the desk in front of him and lowered his head onto them with a groan. How was it possible for someone as objectively intelligent as he was to be so painfully self-deluded? Worse, he’d resorted to metaphorically tugging Martin’s pig tails. Except this wasn’t a schoolyard, and they weren’t children.
He hadn’t made a conscious decision to mistreat the other man. Jon had merely instinctively attempted to distance himself from the very possibility of…complication. His subconscious knew already what lay down that path: Disappointment. Ridicule. Rejection.
Despite his best efforts, though, Martin had not been dissuaded. And neither had Jon, it seemed, in the end. Thinking one could control such a thing was hubris, he supposed. Though, the shame he’d internalised had long since confused which was the real conceit; believing one could prevent the rise of feelings for oneself in others, or presuming they existed in the first place.
You know, I really should have gone for that, found something that would finally manage to shatter that precious image you have of him.
God, Jon wished Elias had. It would have saved Jon the trouble, would have allowed him to blame their pain on their resident villain. Cowardly, perhaps, but Jon had never been a brave man, and his stubbornness was the reason they were in this mess; his determination not to grow fond of another person or allow it in return, his refusal to soften even when it was clear his efforts were having little effect. He should have handled things differently.
But Jon had been afraid.
He couldn’t suppress a mirthless chuckle at that. There he was, sat in a literal archive of horror, the very instrument of its perpetuation, exposed to things so fearful, most could scarcely imagine them, and the thing that had scared Jon the most was the awkward crush of an eager-to-please, ginger teddy bear of a man in his employ. Honestly, it was still one of the most terrifying things he could imagine, because the feeling was mutual, but any hope of a relationship was doomed because Jon could barely tolerate the concept of sex.
Oh, he’d had sex. He’d even enjoyed it on occasion, but it was…too much to endure regularly. It was a sometime indulgence, like an exceptionally rich dessert...one he all too often regretted ordering. Once in a blue moon, it was exquisite, just what he’d craved. Sometimes he’d be convinced he wanted it until it arrived, and he found he just couldn’t finish it. More often than not, the thought of it turned his stomach.
How, then, was he meant to maintain a relationship when most people considered it a…Sunday roast? Jon could never keep up. Either he was sickened by trying or his partner was left unsatisfied.
Jon should have told Martin himself long ago, gotten it out in the open and laid the matter to rest once and for all. Surely then Martin’s interest would have waned, and Jon could have worked to ignore his own.
But then Martin might have stopped looking at him like he could do no wrong - at a time when Jon had needed that faith the most, when he had been so very unsure of his fitness for the role he’d accepted - and think of the loss to Jon’s poor ego should that have happened.
Jon sneered at himself, then frowned. It didn’t matter one way or the other, really. His mind went back to their recent conversation. Martin had actually scoffed when Jon had said he missed him. It had hurt, but it served Jon right, he supposed. It was a bit late to be changing his mind on the matter. He’d thought he couldn’t bear to see that light drain from Martin’s eyes as well, as it had from so many others, though in the end, it had anyway.
Because he’d died.
Martin had moved on. Jon had died, and Martin had grieved him. He had laid those self-confessed feelings like an offering at the foot of Jon’s hospital bed and gotten on with the business of surviving.
Or so Jon had thought until a moment ago.
Yeah. And I’m not going to let it happen again.
What could it mean except that Martin was being reckless for Jon’s sake? Again. Jon knew whatever Lukas had him doing was dangerous. Everything they did now was dangerous. And Jon wanted to trust Martin, just as he’d urged all the others to do, but the thought of Martin in danger made it hard for Jon to breathe. The Not Knowing was torture for him, especially now that he was The Archivist, now that his very existence was tied to knowledge and the pursuit of it. Mostly, it was simply difficult to allow someone else to take the risks that now faced them, most especially when that someone was Martin. Jon had made a decision, he’d chosen to become what he was now. If anyone should be traipsing into danger on behalf of others, it was him. It would be no great loss if he faltered. But the world needed men like Martin, ones who were loyal and compassionate and caring. Jon…
Jon was just another monster.
But Martin was right. He wasn’t an idiot, despite how Jon had often treated him. Because of that, Jon owed it to Martin to let him handle things his way. He trusted Jon. It was time Jon returned his faith. It was painful. It was maddening. But there was nothing for it. All he could do was try to make it clear he was there for Martin when - if - he needed him, which he hoped he had.
Jon straightened with a ragged sigh and pulled the tape from the recorder to return it to the box with the others. Then, he opened his desk drawer and brought out another, one blank but eager to be filled. From the stack on his desktop, Jon picked a folder at random and opened it, giving it a quick scan until the crux of its contents were suddenly Known to him. He took a series of unsteady breaths to center himself and cleared his throat. When the recorder in front of him clicked on of its own accord, he knew he was ready.
“Statement of Kulbir Shakya, regarding a flood that occurred around his house in Hackney. Original statement given September 4th, 2013. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.
Statement begins.”
I have no idea who to tag. :p If anyone would like to be tagged in the continuation (if it happens) let me know. <3
Thanks for reading!
