WAIT IS NOTJON JUST REGULAR-ASS ACTUAL NONFICTIONAL HUMAN JONNY SIMS???
see. the joke was he was vaguely designed around regular-ass actual nonfictional human jonny sims, but within the story he is not, in fact, regular-ass actual nonfictional human jonny sims.
I couldn't do that to regular-ass actual nonfictional human jonny sims.
Fanfic partially inspired by episode 161, and also these excellent bits of Archivist Sasha AU/Not!Jon related fanart by @skyberia
AO3
Summary: Martin doesn't have much left of the real Jonathan Sims. He doesn't even have a face. Not a real one. Just a recording on a tape recorder.
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"Come on…" Martin strains against the super glue cap. "Come on." The damn thing won't move. Frustrated, knowing it's a dumb idea but with no better ones to hand, Martin grips the cap between his teeth and twists.
"What are you doing?"
Martin yelps and fumbles the glue bottle. He frantically grabs for it, but his flailing arms just knock the tape recorder off the table and send it clattering onto the floor. He scrambles to pick it up. Please don't be broken, please don't be broken. There doesn't seem to be any damage. No new damage, anyway.
(He fails to notice that the record button was pressed on by the fall)
Jonathan Sims, Martin's fellow archival assistant and target of an extremely inconvenient crush, raises an eyebrow at him. "Um, sorry, I didn't see you there. You startled me." Curse Jon and his inconvenient good looks. He'd always had a weakness for dark hair and hawklike features.
Jon grunts. "I suppose that's to be expected, given the circumstances." He glances around the storage room. "No worms?"
"What? No, not in here, anyway. I've seen a few around the institute. Been stomping on all of them. Kind of satisfying, really."
Jon grimaces. "Lovely. You never answered my question by the way."
Martin racks his brain, but the last few minutes are a fuzzy, giddy panic to him. "Sorry, which question is that?"
Jon makes an inpatient noise. "What you were doing just now." He motions with his hand.
Martin glances at the tape recorder. "Oh, that. Just trying to fix the tape recorder."
"You? Fix a tape recorder? I thought your degree was in parapsychology."
Guilt gnaws at his insides. Martin does not want Jon thinking too much about his qualifications. "It's nothing complicated! Just one of the buttons broke off. Thought I'd try and glue it back on." He looks at the glue bottle morosely. "Or at least, I was. This seems to be glued shut."
"And you thought you'd pry it off… with your teeth? You do realize that's a good way to end up in A&E with your mouth glued shut." The raised eyebrow is back. He's good at that. Unfairly good at it. It makes Martin's insides leap with excitement. It also makes him want to curl up in a corner and die of embarrassment.
"I know, I know, it was stupid. I'm just frustrated, I guess."
"Understandable, I suppose. Not exactly pleasant accommodations here in storage." Jon pauses. "Are you alright down here? Do you have everything you need?"
"What, me? Oh I'm fine. Totally fine. No need to worry about me." He laughs nervously.
"I believe current circumstances have proven there is plenty of cause to worry." Jon coughs and looks away, his cheeks darkening. Martin has to suppress a lovesick grin. Jon always does this when he crosses his own personal definition of professional boundaries. Which as far as Martin can tell, encompass pretty much anything approaching genuine friendship. Not that Jon is very good at staying inside those boundaries these days. Not since the Prentiss incident.
"Anyway," Jon says, recovering himself. "Do you still have those files on Pinhole Books? Sasha said she'd assigned them to you." He's all business now, as if he hadn't just unbent enough to be outright friendly.
"Those? I think they're somewhere in my desk. Why?"
"Just looking into a few things related to Leitner."
"Alright. I'll try to find them after lunch."
Jon nods, and starts to leave, but hesitates. "You might want to try hot water." He leaves.
Martin heaves a heartfelt sigh. Then he realizes the tape recorder has been recording the whole time.
***
Months later, Jane Prentiss attacks. Jonathan Sims flees into Artifact Storage to hide. Something else comes out.
***
"Here you are Martin."
Martin blinks bleary eyes at the steaming mug that's just been set in front of him. He looks up to see Jon, a kind expression in his eyes. "You made me tea?"
"Of course." Jon smiles down at him. "You do it for me often enough. Seemed only fair."
"Wow, um. Thanks." Martin sips the tea. It's brewed exactly how he likes it: hot and strong with plenty of cream and sugar. "This is… this is really good!"
"Glad to hear it. And how've you been doing? It must be good to have your own place again."
"Not bad. Got a new flat not far from the old one." He'd lost the lease on the old place during his months in the archives. Not that he could have stomached going back there. There might still be worms. "Still unpacking boxes from the old place. At least the neighbors are quiet."
Jon nods. "Say, Tim and I were going to step out a bit early for drinks tonight. You want to come?"
Martin straightens. "Y- yeah, that'd be great." At that point, Sasha pops in with questions about the Herbert Knox file, and the conversation ends. Jon gives him a little wave and wanders back to his desk.
It isn't until later that Martin realizes: the rushing giddiness is gone. He'd had an entire conversation with Jon being nothing but nice to him, and his insides hadn't done one single swoop. He's still plenty fond of the man, but only that. Is his crush evaporating already? That was quick. Martin had expected to be pining after Jon for months yet.
It's probably for the best. Nothing would have come of it, except possibly Martin making a fool of himself. More of a fool of himself. And really, it's remarkable Martin ever had a thing for him to begin with. He doesn't usually go for blond hair.
***
Sasha takes Tim and Martin out to lunch. That's not particularly unusual. Jon is out following up a case, so he can't come, but that's not unheard of either. It isn't until she leads them away from their usual place and towards a park that Martin worries. He's not at all prepared for what she tells them.
"What do you remember about 0070107? Amy Patel's statement?"
Martin and Tim glance at each other. "That's the one where her neighbor was eaten and replaced by an evil drain pipe, right?" Tim said.
"I remember something about… changing photos?" Martin ventures.
Sasha pulls out a tape recorder. She doesn't look at it as she presses play. She doesn't even look at them. She's staring at some indefinite point in space to Martin's left, like it's a window to hell. The recorder plays.
"You're aware it's pronounced Kuh-ly-o-pee, right?" A man's voice, acerbic and dry, that Martin doesn't recognize.
"Really? I've always heard it pronounced ka-lee-o-pee." Sasha's voice.
"I suppose technically there's no correct pronunciation. But the organs are named after the Greek muse Calliope, so…"
Tim frowns. "Isn't that Leanne Denikin's statement? Who's that you're talking to?"
Sasha closes her eyes. "Jonathan Sims. The real one."
***
It takes them a week to find a way to deal with NotJon. During that week, Martin has to pretend that nothing has changed. That he isn't aware that his coworker and one time crush has been replaced by this… thing that calls itself his name. Martin has to smile when he says hello. Thank him when he brings tea. Laugh when he tells a joke. Just like normal.
(Were any of those things normal Jon behavior?)
Sasha's background in artifact storage provides the answer: an old diving bell with a penchant for disappearing people to infinite crushing depths. In his nightmares, Martin can still the the way the thing distorted, when it realized it had been caught. The way its limbs stretched into a grotesque parody of the human form as dark water sucked it in.
And then… things are normal again. There isn't even a police investigation. Jon apparently had no surviving family to raise a fuss about his disappearance. They get drinks, but even that is hard. It's hard to remember which of their fond stories belong to the real Jon, and which to the imposter.
***
One day, Martin finds an unmarked tape in the storage room. Thinking it's an old poetry tape he forgot to label, he pops it in a recorder to play. He could use a pick me up.
It's not poetry. The recording starts with a loud clatter, like the recorder being dropped. Then, Martin's voice. "Um, sorry, I didn't see you there. You startled me ."
"I suppose that's to be expected, given the circumstances ." A man's voice. Acerbic and dry. Martin can't breathe. He remembers this conversation. The voice on the tape is saying all the words that Martin remembers. It's not the same voice.
How long has this tape been sitting here? NotJon had hidden all the tapes containing the real Jon's voice, but apparently he'd missed this one. If Martin had found this earlier, if he'd managed to keep his poetry tapes in some kind of order for once … But Jon had already been dead by the time Martin had first met the imposter. His research on the NotThem made that abundantly clear. They might have caught on sooner. But it wouldn't have saved him.
"You never answered my question by the way."
"Sorry, which question is that?"
God. Had it really been that obvious, how much he'd liked Jon? Martin on the tape sounds like his head has floated off like a child's lost balloon. Jon's annoyance is audible even via tape. He remembers recognizing it as cover for genuine concern. It's so totally unlike the kind, smiling man Martin has known for the past year. How the hell did he never notice the switch?
Maybe he had. Hadn't his crush dissipated around that time? That makes Martin queasy to think about, but he clings to it anyways. That crush might be the truest thing he has left for Jon.
"Are you alright down here? Do you have everything you need?"
Martin blinks away wet, stinging tears. He remembers clear as day the kind and concerned look on Jon's face as he'd said these exact words. Except… those memories were fake. Had the real Jon looked at him like that? What would that even look like? Martin still doesn't know what the real Jon looked like. All he has is Melanie's vague description ("Short. Greying hair. Bit of an arsehole. Definitely not white."). All Martin's photos show only the imposter. He hasn't been able to find any Polaroids. God knows he's tried. He spent a week tracking down old yearbooks and photo albums and anything else he could think of. Plenty of photos of the imposter at varying ages. Nothing else.
Martin tries to construct an image of Jon. Take the few details he does have and paste them over the memories of the imposter. It feels less real than the fake.
Maybe that's the real horror of this monster. When someone you care about dies, you can normally take comfort in your memories of them. The NotThem has stolen that from him. No, worse than stolen. Corrupted. Taken Martin's memories of Jon and plastered them over with a false, smiling face.
