SO I TRIED, to make a Martin-monster menacing, but every time I was thinking of FOG creatures, it was just something blobish, not quiet there, blurry edges.
He looks more like a ghibli fellow than an eldritch horror skskss.
Might explore more later. Now they lookin cute 🥹
Au where when the eyepocalypse starts Jon stays mostly the same but Martin turns into a monster (he's still himself, he's just no longer something you'd recognize as human) (they both still love each other ofc)
Imagine the extra guilt Jon would feel at the fact that not only he had a part in ending the world, but also in his boyfriend no longer being human
("Ok but why would The Eye turn Martin into a monster and not Jon?" uuuuuh idk maybe it was like "my Archive doesn't get to have good things, I'll turn his boyfriend into a monster and let him blame himself for it"?)
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Episode: e190 Scavengers, Episode: e191 What We Lose, Minor Violence, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective!Martin , Lonely!Martin, Monster!Martin, Dark!Martin, Monsters in love
Summary:
So many nightmares and monsters along their journey, and now it was humans who were hurting Jon. Worse, humans they had come to help.
Martin saw red.
----
Some of Georgie & Melanie’s cultists find out that Jon was responsible for the Change. They take it badly.
Then the river dried up, the knowledge stopped, and the only thing that mattered was him.
“Say I am mad and give my madness rein to wreck itself; the worst that can befall Is but to die an honorable death.” —Sophocles
Spoilers for the whole show. This is post-MAG 200.
Part one of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.
AO3
---------------
They saw all.
Everything that was.
Everything that had been, stored in memory and revisited.
Nothing that would be, for that was Future, and Uncertain, and It did not like Uncertain things.
It, however, did not care. It couldn’t.
And then, for no reason, They saw nothing, nothing at all.
Something had come between It and It.
As the river that was knowing dried, a hollowness of need and hunger and pain rushed into its place.
It did not know that It was screaming until It had reason to stop.
#
It stopped because It could see the eyes.
Green eyes, flecked with brown, framed with red-gold lashes. Eyes It knew, eyes that felt like—
“It’s really Jon?” said the owner of the eyes.
(Jon, Hebrew, derivative of Jonathan, meaning God has given, first recorded in the Torah. Notable Jons through history include Adkins, baseball player; Anderson, musician; Cuishaw, comedian; Davidson—)
“Yeah,” said someone else, someone familiar who did not matter. “Gotta clean him off—eons of muck all over—but it’s him.”
“But he doesn’t know me,” said the owner of the eyes, voice suddenly hoarse and tight. (Tension dysphonia, evidenced as incoordination of the vocal control system, which can be caused by stress and anxiety—) “He doesn’t know me!”
“Told you he wouldn’t right away.”
All that mattered was the owner of those eyes. It did not care who else was speaking, and that made Them of two minds.
It wanted to look at the other person, too, and see as much as It could.
It did not want to look away from the eyes.
It needed the gap filled, the hollowness no longer emptied, knowledge and dreams and fears in a river.
It chose to continue looking at the eyes and nowhere else. Home safe settled still—
The eyes grew wet. (Lacrimation, an abnormal or excessive secretion of tears due to local or systemic disease or emotional distress—)
And then the eyes turned away.
Screaming took their place.
#
It screamed.
(Lost aching empty)
(Big hungry dark adrift)
No up, no down, no ground. It screamed.
Until the eyes came back, and then It was able to stop.
#
“Really?” said the owner of the eyes. “The whole time?”
“Yep. Whatever was done to his physiognomy, we can’t put him under. It just doesn’t stop—unless you’re here.”
The owner of the eyes said, “I need a minute,” and left. (Slammed the door, which is a common symptom of psychological distress or emotional hijacking, communicating anger or a need to close one off from whatever caused the outburst—)
It had felt nothing for so long that this new emotion was not easy to identify, but It thought this might be “heartbreak.” (Stress cardiomyopathy, also called broken heart syndrome, often brought on by stressful situations and extreme emotions—)
It did not like the ache, but had no recourse. To bring the eyes back was doing. That was planning.
It did not do those things.
But It used to. Did It not?
This was… a memory of Its own, not through the churning mind of another. It used to plan.
The eyes returned, and the question of planning ceased to matter. “Sorry.”
“For crying out loud, did you have to slam the door? You woke up Agnes,” said the one-who-did-not-matter (and It grew vaguely aware of another sound elsewhere, muffled, like crying and crackling fire, but that did not matter either because the eyes were here).
“Sorry,” said the eyes again.
“I swear, you’re either Martin the Invisible or Martin the Big Stomping Elephant.”
“Very funny. And wouldn’t some kind of whale be more appropriate?”
Martin.
“No, because they don’t have gills.”
Martin?
“Point,” said Martin.
(Beeping annoying unimportant background—)
“Wait, what’s happening? What’s going on?”
“Oh, hell. Step back. There’s activity. The monitors—”
Martin!
“Activity? What does that mean?”
“It means he’s getting really upset and accessing his powers, and we can’t do a damn thing to stop him. Step back!”
(Martin Blackwood, no middle name, K does not mean Kartin, poet, marked by the Lonely, marked by the Eye, four inches taller than—)
Than
(Than what?)
Than
They remembered.
Martin was dead.
Vaguely, It was aware that It screamed, and that Its scream did harm, and the owner of the eyes cried out.
(“Fucking powers!” cried the one-who-did-not-matter.)
Sparking and cracking sounds, bad sounds and shouting. (Beeping, unknown, electronic in origin, possibly an alarm signifying a system of biological or mechanical nature no longer working as intended—)
Martin cried out, and It responded to Martin’s cry, because harming Martin was the worst thing that could ever be.
Stopped. Stopped screaming. Fell silent, gasping, choking it in.
And time slipped, lost.
#
“—understand what just happened!” Martin’s voice. (Martin: Latin, meaning warrior of Mars, dedicated to Mars, given to the god of war—)
“He recognized you. I knew he would, but not this quickly.”
Martin was dead.
“Recognized me? Look, I’ve never met this fucking thing before!”
“Nice. I’m sure that won’t come back to bite you.”
Martin was dead.
“Sash, for fuck’s sake…”
Pain.
(I’ve never met this fucking thing before—)
Rejection?
It knew rejection.
It did not acknowledge rejection.
It knew rejection, and knew it well. It hurt.
“What did you want me to say, then?” said Martin. “After everything we did to get him back—”
“What? You thought he’d just wake up and know you at once? After floating as the Pupil for centuries?” The one-who-did-not-matter sighed. “It takes time. It took you time.”
“I need him so much. I don’t know if I can wait. I… I’ve waited already. I don’t know if I can...”
Gentler. “I know you don’t mean that.”
Martin sighed. “You’re right. I don’t.”
(Choked. Kept it in. Did not scream. Must not hurt him—)
“What if we were too late, huh? What if there’s nothing left?”
“If there wasn’t, he wouldn’t give a damn what your name was.”
Martin.
“I need a minute,” Martin said, and walked away again.
Slammed the door again.
Rejection.
The eyes.
The voice.
Martin.
But Martin was dead.
Its eyes rolled back in Its head (all of them all of the eyes) and everything went dark.
#
“Jon. Please wake up. I’m sorry. Please wake up.”
The eyes.
The voice.
Him.
It wanted to speak. To say Martin’s name. It moved Its tongue to find only eyes.
“He’s responding,” said the one-who-did-not-matter. “Keep it up.”
“Hi, Jon,” said Martin, said the anchor-the-one-who-mattered (but Martin was dead). “I’m here. I’m here.”
It cried because it could not say his name.
It did not understand.
It needed to say his name.
It only needed to know his name.
It needed—
Opened mouth throat thought tongue, past eyes, past shapes, past things that only saw and did not speak.
“Why is he crying?” said Martin.
“I don’t know, but it’s a good sign. A display of human emotion is a hell of a lot more important than why he’s doing it.”
“I don’t like this,” said Martin.
Had to say the name. “Martin.”
“Oh!” said the other person-who-did-not-matter. “Did you hear that? Did I have a stroke? Did he say it?”
“He said it,” whispered Martin.
It hurt. This was too much, hurt too much. Like peeling open Itself, reaching in, taking out everything.
The green eyes, there. Just there. Here.
Martin was de-
It knew that was wrong. Martin was alive.
It knew this was not wrong. Martin was dead.
It did not care what It knew, what was wrong, whether this fact mattered or could be recalled. “Martin.”
“Yes, Jon, it’s me.”
The strain—
It could not accept the untruth.
It needed the untruth.
Its eyes rolled back again into the dark.
#
“Easy.”
Martin.
Martin’s voice.
Martin. Hand on his face. (Face? It had a face? It… I… I had a face?)
But Martin was—
“I’m here. It’s okay. Hey… hey, look at me, would you?”
It did, with all of Itself. I did. With… all of… It… I… me.
Martin shuddered, seen, stripped, beheld.
(Martin.)
“Easy,” said Martin, voice shaky, as the beep of monitors dinged confusingly, like multiple hearts.
It could—I could—only see him.
His eyes. Here. Now. His hair, touched with white like frost. His smile, hopeful, trembling. His tears.
Martin.
“But you died,” came from my throat, and I almost went away again.
Wanted to, to disassociate, to… (A disconnection between a person’s thoughts, memories, feelings, actions or sense of who they are—)
“No, Jon,” said Martin, tight. “You did.”
“I did?”
It disagreed. I had not died. He had.
A gasp. The other person who-did-not-matter. “He asked?”
“You’re asking questions.” Martin wiped his eyes. “You’re really in there. You aren’t gone.”
I was shaking. It sh… I shook. “No,” I said. “I remember. You died. We… he went for you. Trevor Herbert. I was wrong. He went for you, and he shot you. You died. And I—”
“It’s okay,” Martin said, but it wasn’t.
“I gave myself to It because I could not—”
“It’s okay!”
Nothing was okay. “I screamed!” I said, unable to look away from him, unwilling to even blink. “I screamed, but it didn’t bring you back. That’s the last thing I recall as… myself. And now, I screamed here, too—the first thing I recall, finding myself. You must have had me, all along.”
I didn’t even know what I was saying.
Martin sniffled. Tears slid down his cheeks (and I remembered those cheeks, remembered them against my lips, remembered his scent, remembered his sweet stubble). “You’re in there. She was right. You’re in there.”
“Told you,” said the one-who-did-not-matter (though I knew her voice, and that was strange).
“You died,” I said, and the words stuck in my throat.
“No. We made it to the Panopticon. And I had to kill you there.”
“What?” I said, because that had not happened. “I ring like a bell,” I said then, because every word I spoke echoed in me.
“Easy,” said the other voice. “Keep breathing.”
Suddenly, I knew her. “Sasha?”
“Hey.” She came into view.
And it was her. It really was her. Just a few years older, a pinch more gray at her temples, but alive. “Hi, Jon,” she said, her crooked smile, her slightly uneven teeth, her eyes big and brown behind her glasses.
“You aren’t not-Sasha,” I told her.
“Right,” she said. “In my timeline, I didn’t go into Artefact Storage. It didn’t get me. It got Tim.”
“Tim?” I said.
“He’s alive here,” said Martin. “In his timeline, he didn’t blow up the museum. Daisy did.”
“Tim is alive?” (tension dysphonia). I was so confused, and there was such a beauty to it; to being confused, to not knowing, a sweet and magnificent ache that I didn’t know I missed until this moment. “How?”
“Oh, we were a nexus, or something,” said Sasha. “Everybody there was basically a chosen one, you know? So we all got our chance.” Her voice dropped, bitter. “And we all blew it. Ended the world. Go, us.”
“What?” I said.
“It’s okay,” said Martin. “You’ve got time. You don’t have to understand it yet.”
Martin was alive, and I laughed.
Sasha looked startled.
Martin smiled. “Something funny?”
“Yes! Yes, I…” I didn’t even remember reaching, grabbing, closing the eyes on my hands and my arms so I could pull him close, and he sat on the bed with me, letting me pull him close. “We’re here, and…we’re alive, and… it’s too ridiculous, and…”
“Jon,” whispered Martin.
“You know what? How about I give you guys a minute?” said Sasha. “If anything on these monitors changes…”
“I’ll get you,” he said, thick, not taking his eyes from me.
I couldn’t see properly. The room was a fuzzy white, too bright, sterile. But I could see Martin. “How is this possible?”
“Leitner,” he said.
“Leitner?” And I kissed Martin, because Leitner could go to hell. I remembered Martin. His lips. His teeth. His chin, the way it bumped against mine. “If I close my eyes, you might go away again,” I said against his perfect mouth.
“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll never. You’re really you,” he said, his hand in my hair, and he sobbed.
My body ached, felt weird; most of my eyes were closed. “How?” I said again, because I had to know.
“Would you believe there’s one universe where Leitner wasn’t an ass?” said Martin, and laughed.
I laughed, too. I remembered how to do it so easily now. “I do not believe that.”
“I mean, he still fucked it up. We all did. All of us here, our universes ended. All of—”
“Then you’re not my Martin?” I said, interrupting him.
He stroked my hair. “I am. I mean. I’m the one you knew. We just… we all branched off. We—our group, in the Archives—we were the breaking point.”
“Breaking point?” I kissed him again. Same taste. Same scent. Same—
He had a tiny scar on his cheek that he didn’t before. A little notch, barely visible.
He let me touch it, and didn’t flinch away. “Got that when the Panopticon fell.”
Was I crying? I was crying. “I made you kill me?” Because of course, it had to be something I did. He wouldn't have just done it.
He swallowed.
“What did I do? You still won’t go away?”
“Never. Where you go, I go.”
“Even though you had to kill me?” I could barely hear my own words.
“I had to,” he whispered. “To stop the Eye. But it ended everything. I was in… I was in some kind of endless sea for… I don’t know how long.”
He still wanted to be near me after that?
I couldn’t comprehend it. Or what I must have done. Or how he could forgive. “But how am I here? I’m not killed,” I said, because I had to know.
Martin’s smile. Patient. Longsuffering. Fond. Knowing me. (I was known.) “Leitner and Manuela, who… isn’t awful? She’s an impossible physicist. Into wormholes. Alternate universes. Anyway, Leitner’s trying to make up for what he did by rescuing remnants. Us. Leftovers from universes that died because of our little group. It’s a mess.”
It had been so long since I felt anything, and now I felt too much. “He is? Why?”
“Guilt. He fucked up, and he felt shitty, and this is how he decided to atone.”
“By kidnapping people?” I blurted, feeling stupid, trying to make it make sense.
Martin laughed. “I missed you so much,” and then he was holding me, and it was so tight, and it was him, and that was his heart, and this was my Martin, and I—
Martin was dead.
So maybe I’d gone crazy.
Maybe the Eye did too much to me, and I was still in the world the Eye made, floating, mind snapped like dry wood, imagining things.
If it was, if I’d really lost it, and this wasn’t happening… I didn’t care.
“I want this,” I told him, clutching, keeping all my extra eyes closed. “I need you.”
“I know.”
“I love you. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I got you killed.”
He looked so pale. “Jon… it wasn’t your fault. I know that, now,” he said to me, and I knew (knew, which I didn’t want to do anymore, but apparently, that still happened) I was forgiven.
And then I cried, and it was good, and painful, and human, and I let it come and didn’t try to stop it because that was a thing I’d forgotten how to do and finally remembered.
“I’m so sorry,” I whispered again.
And my fingers dug into his back, and he kissed my jaw.
“I’ve got you, Jon,” he said, and I knew he meant it.
(But I’ve never met this fucking—)
Erased. He no longer thought that. And even if he did, I no longer cared.
If this was the lie, I would live it.
It was not happy.
I did not care. “I have too many eyes.”
Martin laughed. “Um. Ask me about gills sometime.”
“What?”
He laughed again, and his cheeks went red, and his eyes were shiny, but not from sorrow.
I pulled him down to the bed, on top of me like a heavy, hot blanket. “I want to know about gills.”
“I promise I’ll tell you all of everything,” Martin said, and settled, his breath against my neck.
I held him.
He held me.
He went to sleep like that, on me, like he hadn’t slept in twenty years, breathing just under my ear.
I still could not sleep, but that didn’t matter. Only one thing did: him.
Sasha came to check, smiled to find him unconscious, and left us alone.
I didn’t understand what happened. Not really. Not yet. Eventually, I would. It didn’t matter.
Martin was d
I could not live with that truth anymore.
Martin was not dead. He was here. And so was I. (And maybe Martin needed that untruth, too, if he’d had to kill me.)
I closed all my eyes, and ignored Its complaints, and held my Martin.
If this was madness, it was also my joy, and I would wrap it around my heart and engrave it on my bones and sear it in the backs of all of my eyes.
If this was madness, it was mine, and I would never let it go.
-----
Notes:
So in case it wasn't clear: There was ONE universe where Leitner was not a complete asshole, but was trying to run around sort of... Gertruding his way through life, being a "good" guy. He blew it, and his universe died. But not before he could connect with Manuela, who, instead of a Dark Sun, was working on wormholes.
They got out. He felt bad. He discovered that there were numerous universes like his thanks to group of people going back about forty years, all of whom were somehow connected. They also all managed to end the world like he did - in flame, or darkness, or any number of things.
He felt bad. One thing led to another, and... it's puppy-rescue time.
What will happen with them all back together in one place? Nobody knows! No one is the same. They've all been changed. Most are monsters.
But Martin is alive, and to at least one person, that's the only thing that matters.
Put That Thing Back Where It Came From (Or So Help Us Both)
“…aaah! Waaah!”
Martin shuts his eyes and lets his head relax further onto his pillow under it, trying to slow his breathing and will his hearing to stop working. He’s exhausted, it feels like it’ll be a matter of moments before he finally drops off to sleep—
“Waaaaaaaah! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!”
Martin pulls both sides of the pillow up around his face and muffles a small scream into it.
He’s just finished his night shift at the convenience store, and he only has a few hours before he needs to get up and ready for his afternoon shift at the shelter. And yeah, sure, his cheap apartment complex has extremely thin walls, but when he’d moved here his neighbor hadn’t been the kind of person who sounds like they’re torturing a small animal, so he’d figured it would be alright.
Then again, the kindly old goblin who used to live next door to him moved out not long ago, back to his clutch’s home in Amsterdam or something. And the person who’s just moved in clearly is not as considerate as their predecessor.
He lets go of the pillow, then groans when he realizes one side has gotten snagged on his horn, again.
This can’t go on, he decides as he sets about untangling himself and kicking off his blanket. He knows from experience that if he just tries to bury his head in the sand and live with it that the noises will just get worse. Better to endure the discomfort of knocking on a stranger’s door early on and ask them to keep it down so that his sleep will stay uninterrupted down the line.
Plus whatever’s wailing sounds positively heartbroken. And the animal lover in Martin has never been willing to stand idly by if someone’s making one sound like that.
He can feel that the fur on the back of his neck has gone cowlicky, and he attempts to smooth it down and shake his fringe out of his eyes as he raps smartly on his new neighbor’s door.
He can feel his shoulders hunch automatically, his customer service smile coming out. Martin knows he’s big, even for a minotaur, and he wants to put his new neighbor at ease even if he’s feeling fed up and exhausted.
There’s a soft, dry susurrus of sound behind the door, like dry leaves rasping against each other on a forest floor.
Martin can barely keep his eyes from fluttering shut when the harsh snap of locks being undone has him snapping to attention as well.
The door creaks open as the occupant shoves themself through, glaring up at him over the rims of their square glasses, eyes rich and deep. The hair falling across their forehead is velvety black, peppered with strands of grey like light shining off silk. A smart-looking button-up shirt is rolled up to their elbows and partially unbuttoned, giving Martin an unwitting glimpse of the slim, svelte form and black chest binder beneath. Below their waist, a tail of rich, deep green scales glitters in the fluorescents of the hallway, appearing to extend far into the apartment behind them.
Martin feels his breath catch.
Oh. Oh no.
This person is incredibly handsome. Almost too good-looking to really feel real, you know? Someone so far out of Martin’s league they’re not even batting in the same proverbial park. This person is in the 02 in front of millions of people, universally beloved, while Martin’s still down in a requisitioned council playing field, not even worthy of rowdy kids’ taunting. Hypothetically, he means.
Ooh, Martin’s in trouble.
“What.” Says the insanely handsome lamia in a deep, smooth, masculine voice. “Do you want.”
“I-uh.” Martin has to swallow to get his throat working, make his thick-feeling tongue form actual words. “Hi? I’m, uh, I’m Mar-Martin, Blackwood! Martin Blackwood, yes, I, um, live at the end of the corridor? Right, right next to you, actually, and-and I couldn’t help overhearing some, some noises? And normally, I wouldn’t mind but I just got off of work and I’ve another shift in a few hours, so, so I was wondering if there was anything you needed. Help? With?”
It takes a lot of willpower for him not to turn right around and brain himself on the wall behind him in response to that word salad.
The lamia scoffs, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “Well, Mr. Blackwood, unless you happen to have a degree in veterinary sciences, I very much doubt that you’ll be in any position to help me whatsoever.”
Martin’s about to protest that, okay, he maybe doesn’t have a degree, but he’s worked at a no-kill shelter for five years now so he could be considered more of a help in this particular field than maybe the average person.
But then he catches sight of what’s cradled in the lamia’s arms, and.
Well.
That’s certainly. A Creature.
In the impossibly pretty lamia’s arms is something small and hairless, apart from a patch of thick curls on the top of its rounded head. It’s a little bigger than a loaf of bread and the sort of color that Martin’s learned to associate with classroom furniture, the shade of brown kindly described as “neutral”.
It has four chubby legs, but its each of its forelegs end in an odd, starfish shape with five protrusions that’re eerily similar to hands, while its hind-legs end in a flatter, rectangular shape, also with five protrusions. The main body is also pretty chubby-looking, with small folds of skin forming where it twists and wriggles. For some reason it has a blue and pink garment covering its lower body.
It’s face is oddly flat, overall. There are two rounded things on either side of it’s head that Martin assumes are ears. There’s an odd dimple between its nose and its mouth, which is full of mostly flat, white teeth. It’s eyes are screwed shut and leaking what could be water, but also could be some other kind of clear and potentially toxic fluid. Whatever is coming out of its nose definitely is.
It’s whimpering like it’s contemplating starting up the racket that it had been making earlier again, but doesn’t know whether it has the strength to do so.
“What is that?” Martin can’t help breathing.
The lamia draws themself up, cuddling the creature closer with an imperious look. “This happens to be a cat, if you don’t mind.”
Martin looks at the lamia. Looks back down at the creature, whimpering unhappily in their arms.
“I’m sorry, in what world is that any sort of cat?”
The lamia’s expression mixes indignation, outrage, and a pout that Martin finds unfairly adorable. “They-they can’t help that they were born with a few, a few mutations!”
“A few?!” Martin can’t help the octaves his voice is reaching, even as it makes his ears flick. “Yeah, I suppose you could say that, if by ‘a few mutations’ you mean they’re an entirely different species!! Their ears aren’t even in the right place, they’ve got no whiskers, an-and do they even have claws?!”
The lamia hisses at him, fangs out in a threat display, but that causes the creature in their arms to let out a dangerously upset whine. They instantly are focused on it, bouncing it gently while making soft shushing noises until it settles once more.
Martin pinches the bridge of his snout.
“Look.” He sighs, weariness in his bones. “Has it. Has it eaten anything today?”
“You think I didn’t try that?!” The lamia hisses, sans fangs this time. “I, I gave them dry food when they arrived, and they ate a few pellets of that but then they wouldn’t touch it, or the wet food I opened!”
Martin privately feels the creature at least has a modicum of taste, because he wouldn’t touch what goes into most wet cat foods either.
“Maybe it’s not up to really digesting those foods yet.” He suggests. “Have you got any baby formula? Or, or milk in a pinch?”
The lamia makes a face that Martin suspects means ‘why on earth would I have either of those things’.
“But they’re not a baby.” They mutter. “I ordered an adult cat. Look how big they are!”
Martin looks. And whatever it is, it is quite large for an infant, even if its behavior puts him in mind of puppies or kittens crying fretfully for their mothers.
“Sometimes some breeds can be bigger than others. Like—like Maine Coons, you know?” He says, conveniently omitting the fact that he severely doubts any domesticated cat could get that large.
The lamia looks doubtfully at the creature.
The creature opens its eyes to stare dolefully back up at them and Martin, hiccoughing.
“Look, wait here a tick.” With that, Martin jogs back to his apartment, grabbing his keys out of the door where he left them.
He doesn’t have any formula lying around, but at the bottom of his bag he does find a feeding bottle that he rinses out with steaming water just in case. He also has fresh milk in for tea, so he grabs the carton.
He takes a moment as he locks his door behind him to desperately hope that whatever this creature is, it’s one that can digest cow milk without problem.
He returns with his bounty to where the lamia is waiting. “May I come in?”
“O-oh.” The lamia shifts, moving out of the doorway enough that Martin can shuffle through. “Ri-right, of course.”
Martin enters the apartment. It’s fairly neat all things considered, only a few boxes left unpacked and everything. The only mess is a box with several blankets spilling out of it and a vast assortment of cat paraphernalia, including one food bowl of kibble and another of water, both with a splash radius. A tin of wet cat food is going off on the counter.
Martin discretely sweeps it into the bin.
“Right, it might be a good idea to maybe give their face a wipe with a warm cloth or something? Can’t imagine having all that drying on them is very nice for the poor mite.” He holds up the milk carton and bottle. “I could warm this up on the stovetop for them if that’s alright with you?”
“Of, of course. Uh, saucepan’s, saucepan’s just in that cabinet there.” The lamia points out one of the lower cabinets as they snake over the floor towards the bathroom.
Martin bends over to get it and nearly clonks his head on the inside of the cupboard when the lamia’s voice comes, “My-my name’s Jon, by the way. Jonathan Sims.”
“Oh, oh, er, nice to meet you!” He calls back, spotting a work lanyard discarded on the counter by the stovetop that bears the same name and a fancy-sounding workplace.
The lanyard also has He/Him under Jon’s name in slightly smaller font. Martin files that information away carefully as he half-fills the saucepan, places the milk temporarily in Jon’s fridge, and turns on the heat.
“So, you, ah. You placed an order for a cat?” Martin asks as he warms the milk on a low heat.
“Mm.” Jon’s voice sounds distracted over the sound of running water. “You’re being very good now, aren’t you? Just need to get under your eyes here…”
“How, um. How come you didn’t go to a shelter? There are some pretty good ones nearby…”
The resulting silence has one of Martin’s ears flicking nervously.
“…Didn’t want to run into someone I knew there.” He thinks he picks up over the water. “Besides, I spoke with a representative of the Rescue Center on the phone, and their website was very comprehensive.”
Martin tilts his head, watching the pot. “Oh? Think you could contact them again then? See if the, uh, cat has any special care needs?”
A mutter that’s too quiet for Martin to hear even as the water’s turned off is his only response.
“Beg your pardon?”
“I said the number’s been disconnected.” Jon’s voice comes from directly behind him, making him jump. “And the website url keeps bringing up a page saying ‘it doesn’t exist’ or what have you, which is ridiculous, because it was just there yesterday—!”
Ah. He got scammed then.
Martin switches off the heat before the milk starts to steam, moving it to another hob to let it cool a bit before pouring it into the bottle.
Jon is behind him, the creature bundled into his arms. It’s blinking at him sleepily, sclera slightly pink. It looks…a little bit better? Martin really can’t tell.
Martin attaches the nib to the bottle, and after testing the temperature, holds it out to Jon. “Um. Do you want to…?”
The lamia’s face is briefly consumed by wild-eyed panic, before a superior expression covers it and he turns up his nose. “Not all of us are mammals, you know.”
Martin draws his hand back, mildly stung. “Hey.”
“No, I mean.” He groans, drawing a hand down his face, before peering up at Martin over his glasses. “I wish I could say I’m better when I’m more awake, but I’ve been reliably informed I’m not. I apologize. I meant that I don’t…have any experience, in this style of feeding. Is there. Is there some trick to it?”
Martin, damn him, melts despite himself. If questioned on his quick capitulation later, he’s going to blame it on sleep-deprivation. “Not, not really? If you don’t feel comfortable, I could always show you…?”
Jon and the creature almost appear to exchange glances for a moment.
Jon slides closer and, with an incredibly reluctant expression, holds the creature out. “Just. Mind you’re careful with them. They’re, they’re delicate.”
Martin takes them carefully, giving Jon a reassuring smile. He tries to pretend he’s treating one of the animals at the shelter instead of…whatever this is. “Hello, you. Are you hungry?”
The creature watches him, suspiciously.
But when he holds the bottle close to their mouth, they latch onto the nib with surprising gusto, sucking down the warm milk greedily. One of their forelegs even comes up to clumsily grasp at the bottle.
“Easy!” Martin chides, chuckling quietly. “It’s not going anywhere, duck, you can take your time.”
“I am not,” Jon objects, slithering closer. “Calling them that. It’d be ridiculous to own a cat named Duck.”
“Why not?” Martin teases, head feeling foggy with exhaustion. “S a good name, Duck. Could call them Robber instead. Robber of Sleep, aren’t you? Aren’t you?”
The creature says nothing, just keeps emptying the bottle, eyes half-lidded.
“Don’t be mean.” Jon’s pouting outright now. It’s just as unfairly adorable as it was before. “…Do you want to sit down? You look…”
“Thanks,” Martin yawns agreeably, too tired to even question when Jon leads him over to a cushioned, circular structure with an odd, canopy-like overhang made of wood and a pair of quilts.
It won’t dawn on him ‘til later that this is most likely Jon’s bed.
In the moment he keeps watch as the creature gradually empties the bottle, eyes drifting slowly but surely closed as Jon pulls himself up onto the structure behind him.
“I could, ah.” He murmurs, trying to twist around to face Jon under some vague idea that not doing so would be impolite. “My work at the shelter has a book. Big book, on all sorts of animals and their diseases and mutations and care and stuff. I could take a look at it f’you. If you like.”
Jon’s eyes glint in the dark behind his glasses. “S please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
Martin huffs a soft laugh as he puts down the empty bottle, shifting the creature up to his shoulder to prepare to burp them, rubbing their back gently. “No trouble. Happy to help.”
He’ll just close his eyes for a moment, he tells himself. Just a moment, and then he’ll make his excuses and go. Just a moment…
Martin wakes up a little too warm and comfortable, with the creature snuffling softly on his chest, Jon’s head pillowed on his shoulder, and his not-inconsiderable tail tangled up with Martin’s legs.
He is also thirty minutes from being very late for work, if his cheap plastic watch is any indication.
The easy part is moving the creature off his chest onto Jon’s, and gently shifting Jon’s head off his shoulder onto a pillow.
The difficult bit is attempting to untangle Jon’s tail from his legs. Particularly since it keeps tightening to keep him in place, like a python around its prey.
He ends up toppling off what he’s realizing to his own mental panic is obviously a bed (extremely handsome Jon’s bed!!!) in his attempts to free himself. Somehow this clatter doesn’t wake the two occupants.
He then wastes time dithering over whether he should leave Jon a note, then over what he should write the note on, then over the fact that for all his neatness Jon somehow doesn’t have a table or any chairs, and ends up leaned over the countertop scribbling his phone number on the back of an instructional pamphlet called ‘Your Cat Friend And You’, along with instructions on how to make the creature more warm milk and some reassurance about how he’ll be back later but call if there are any problems, any at all!
It isn’t until he’s fled Jon’s apartment, grabbed his own bag, and is on the bus towards the shelter than he realizes that he signed the note, love, Martin.
This time he doesn’t hold back from attempting to brain himself on the bus’s safety pole.
His boss at the shelter is a lovely orc, who’s extremely understanding about his flailing attempts to explain that someone came to him with an animal emergency, which is why he hasn’t showered or changed clothes from yesterday. She even offers him paid leave, if he wants it.
That makes him feel even worse, if anything, because she is a genuinely good, lovely person and Martin always ends up feeling a bit like a heel whenever he can’t quite live up to that himself or leaves her in the lurch. Part of his brain (one that sounds a lot like his mum, if he’s honest with himself) whispers that she’s genuine in a way that he can never hope to be.
Still. He waves off her offer, places himself on feeding and cleaning duty to make up for the trouble he’s caused, and only allows himself to ask to look at the office encyclopedia once.
She agrees, of course.
Martin pours over the book on his break, an extra strong cup of tea at his elbow to help make up for skipping his morning dose of caffeine, trying to place what on earth kind of creature is in Jon’s apartment.
It’s an excellent encyclopedia, with glossy, high-definition photographs of various animals accompanying through descriptions of their habits, health, and care.
The creature is probably a mammal, as it was warm and has no feathers, scales, or exoskeleton. It’s not hairy enough to be any kind of bear, and didn’t have any claws, ruling out many other predators of that type. It has no hooves, so it’s not an ungulate. It’s teeth are too dull to be a raccoon, koala, or a badger. It’s too big to be a naked mole rat, a mouse or a pooka. The ends of its hind-legs are the wrong shape for chimpanzees, bonobos, gorillas, or any other kind of ape, though Martin feels that these are probably the closest.
It certainly isn’t any sort of cat, domestic or otherwise.
He gives a small groan, munching on the rich tea biscuits that serve as his lunch. He’s almost starting to think it’s not here, that Jon was somehow scammed into taking some sort of—of alien under his wing.
There is one last entry, right at the back of the book.
It’s the only one without any photographs, instead using an artist’s rendition of the animal described in the text on the opposite page.
It looks fearsome, regardless. A bear’s feet and an ape’s hands, chest like an orc and legs like a tengu, a merperson’s head filled with a raccoon’s teeth and a cow’s eyes, downed all over with thin, fine hairs.
Humans, Martin reads, were apex predators at one point in time before their extinction, specializing in endurance and tool crafting to catch their prey. Due to their ability to adapt nigh-impenetrable defenses against their predators, their species bred like wildfire, causing an overpopulation crisis that nearly took the planet down with them.
These animals were highly dangerous, the book says. While extinct, any potential resurgence of their species is a matter of international concern.
Martin shudders and begins flicking back through the book, trying to find a more likely candidate.
After all, what’s the likelihood of one of those turning up in this day and age?
you go down to the basement cause it's suspiciously cold and you find your crush who went MIA years ago has since turned into a fog monster and is now eating your customers, wyd??
[IMAGE ID: A skewed perspective sketch of Lonely!Martin being illuminated by a dropped flashlight. It is drawn in tones of dark teals, browns, and the light is yellow.
In the foreground, a fallen flashlight and Jon's open hand are visible with text reading "M-Martin?!"
In the background, a tall, curled bookcase frames the figure the flashlight illuminates. The figure is Martin, a fat man with curly hair and glasses. He is made of and emanating fog tendrils. The light reflects on and through him as if he were made of something other than flesh. /end ID]
