The Archivist sets the paper aside, and the world floods back to him in full colour. He is very cold, he realises, with a sort of distant curiosity. When he looks down at his fingers, they are white and frost has started to form on them. It lingers, even when he rubs them together. It spreads across his desk, a rime of white frost crystals, and his tea, already cold, is now frozen on top.
The Archivist smiles and takes a breath. He can smell sea brine even if the closest to the sea they get is the Thames.
Martin waits until the Archivist is well and truly absorbed into the statement before he steps into the room and lets his influence spread until the door is sealed with ice and frost. It's a warning to everyone working the Archives not to interrupt and if they ignore that warning... well. He doesn't relish the thought of doing anything to Jon's assistants but this time is precious to him and he's not willing to share it.
Cold arms wrap around him from behind, followed by a face buried into the crook of his neck. The smell of aging books and dusty libraries is home for him and Martin tightens his grip as he soaks it in after five months abroad following the whims of his patron.
There are so few people who call him Jon these days. Elias still does sometimes, when they're in public, and Peter he had grudgingly accepted it from. Technically his bank statements and the lease on his flat still read Jonathan Sims, but it always feels a bit like something from another life.
From Martin it is familiar and feels like home.
He shivers when arms wrap around him, and he feels breath and cool skin against his neck. He closes his eyes and gives a soft hum of pleasure. "How long has it been?"
Time gets a little fuzzy for him these days, and he struggles to keep track. There is so much to learn, so many things to Know, and the days slide away. He just knows that when Martin is away it is always Too Long, and all the sweeter for it.
Five months that felt like five years, dragged out with the longing to be back here breathing Jon's presence in like he needs it to live. The loneliness is another offering to his patron in exchange for these times when he can have Jon.
He marks a line in his journal every day he's gone, a physical reminder as he does his business. Now he sheds each of those days like a weight as he presses a kiss to Jon's jaw.
"Have you been taking care of yourself while I've been gone?"
He gets back into the Archives after lunch later than he normally would and heads into his office. He feels full and sated and he settles back into his seat with air of a crocodile, drowsy from feeding. His gaze is still a little absent, a little unfocussed as he relives the statement that he'd dragged from the man in the park, lets it run through his mind again and again, drowns in it.
He knows that he'll want more again soon. He always does. It sustains him in a way that paper statements just cannot do. And slowly his humanity comes creeping back, and with it the guilt. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he will have to live with for the rest of his life. And he savours that too. Because one day, one day he probably won't feel a flicker of guilt about anything.
Martin tries to give Jon his space when he can. Constant surveillance is only going to convince Jon that he needs to be watched because he's not human. So he tries not to hover too much so Jon has that opportunity to be a person.
Except-
Except this keeps happening. He tastes the difference in the air as Jon comes back from his long lunch. The minutes ticking past the hour he should have been back by left a sick pit in Martin's stomach that left him unable to finish the leftover takeaway he had brought for himself.
Martin lets himself into Jon's office after a brief knock, not even waiting for an answer before he's stepping inside and sitting down across from him. He places a tape recorder on the desk between them and presses the record button. "Who was it this time, Jon?" He asks, and he wonders if he looks as tired as he feels.
Jon barely looks up when the door opens. His eyes are closed, tongue flicking out over his lips occasionally as he takes the time to process it. It feels so good is the problem. All that fear, that suffering and pain. It sustains him and his god pleased. And he'll see them in his dreams too, watch them over and over again and drink in every second.
It's only when the record button clicks on that he seems to take notice, a siren's call, and he looks up at Martin with half-lidded eyes that blink slowly at him, like a cat that's half asleep and fed well.
And then he lays it out, the whole story with perfect clarity, mirroring that poor soul's experience with his words and his voice, each of them imbued with that primeval terror ripped out from dormancy. Finally he sighs and leans forwards, arms folded on the desk, and rests his head against them. "And then I came back here."
Martin listens to every word and feels the weight of that responsibility. Another lost soul to add to the growing file that sits in his desk, a collection of all of Jon's victims and everything he needs to know about them. Most will likely be found by the powers that singled them out in the first place, but there was always a chance that a victim could ascend to something... something more. Something worse. And then they might wish to have words with the Archivist who dredged up their pain and fed upon it.
Martin doesn't intend to let that happen.
"Statement ends." He says, clicking the recorder off with a sigh that's entirely more tired than Jon's is. He watches as the Archivist drowses, satisfied with the meal he pried from his victim's mind and wishes things could be different. "I think you ought to go have a lie down, Jon. You look tired." He looked happy, sated and that scares him. Better to send him off and hope that when he wakes up he remembers his human side again.
If there were anyone better to ask for advice or an introduction to such matters, Angela would very much like to meet them. No, when she received the tentative message from Jon and invited him over for tea and to discuss whatever was on his mind, she couldn't have imagined it would be exactly like this, but she's glad he had come to her. Maybe a part of her had suspected that the moons would hold sway over him eventually, whether he liked it or not. But with some brief assurance that it isn't the case, that really, this was all right, she bumps her brow to his for a long moment with a hand cradling his jaw, thumb over some scar or another, and she says "okay". She just needs a few minutes to get everything prepared.
Pick the right equipment for the job, ensuring it's all sterilized and she has enough condoms on hand, and— well. She'll try not to spook him with all the details. The trust was already there, no? Months and months of friendship, of being subjected to this place, and Jon... likely wanting to take some form of control, she imagines, but that may not be quite right, either.
"Would you like to take a shower before we begin?"
She's already drawing him along by his fingertips, guiding him toward her bedroom as bare feet pad quietly on the hardwood— spacious, bed soft and walls done in navy with gold diamond frames, just like the living room. It seemed to be the theme of the place. The only thing she's likely added to the default room were extra coffee mugs for guests and the number of blankets strewn about, and even half of those were gifts. Her own attire's mostly just the oversized sweater nearly reaching her knees she's bundled in, material silky soft and fuzzy trumping even cashmere, having been winding down after a day of work and in no rush to get terribly decent for his arrival. She was comfortable as she was; she figured it would inspire the same in him as he toed off his shoes and entered her flat.
It's taken a long time for him to get to this point, for him to feel comfortable about this. He isn't a sexual person by nature; quite the opposite, but he's stuck here, and he has people he trusts to not push boundaries he isn't comfortable with crossing. He's still prickly and awkward, but more than all of that, he's curious. Had been, even before he'd become the Archivist, and that has only increased with his patron's directive to learn and experience.
And who better to teach him than Angela?
He lets her guide him through the house, taking in the details of the place with greedy eyes before he manages to pull his attention back to her.
"Ah, a shower might be good," he agrees. It would feel less awkward to strip off for a shower, than it would to undress purely for sex. "I'm not- there are a lot of scars," he adds. He doesn't think she'll mind, but he feels like he should warn her anyway.
It was that genuine curiosity that had her agreeing to his request so easily; he had explained his feelings before, on the subject, and so she'd never pressed him. They could nap together, curl up on a sofa and read, go out to eat, and just generally enjoy one another without it needing to result in the removal of clothes and feisty hands. She's always been happy if he's comfortable; it needn't be anything more than that. (And of course, he receives no small number of kisses from her, dotting his cheeks and his brow, once catching him on the nose, the corners of his smiles.) He's her friend, and she's affectionate. She will always gladly share that with him without expectation.
There are signs of company through her flat, but no other signs of life. No roommates; not anymore. Once they're in her room, there's a door clearly leading to the spacious bathroom, and his acknowledgement has her leading him over to the doorway before she's drawing his hand up with the twine of their arms, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Her glance through her lashes is only a little mischievous. It's nothing new from her.
"You know I work with soldiers; scars are nothing new. Would you like some company...?"
There's still an awkwardness to him when he's shown affection. Even after months, it still feels like something surprising, and he knows he doesn't deserve that sort of comfort anyway. He still wants it. He's selfish like that.
"I know, I just- they're unpleasant and I feel like I should warn you. It's polite." He certainly doesn't want to spring them on someone unprepared.
"And if you want to come in with me, i wouldn't object," he adds, a flush creeping up his cheeks.
Once upon a time, that question would have sounded more menacing, coming from Daisy, a threat by way of insinuation. Over a pint, and with multiple nights of pints behind them,it's still not a harmless question but at least the claws are sheathed somewhat. She asks it steadily, with an air of the rhetorical- she's pretty sure Jonathan Sims has never been in a fight, at least not a serious one. But it can be good to check.
Jon looks up from the paperwork he's poring over. He feels like he should at least attempt to keep up appearances, and that does involve a certain amount of report writing and pretending that any of them have some sort of regular schedule or professional development. It's about as fictional as the statements that record to his laptop.
It's said without a hint of a smile, to the point where it anyone unfamiliar with Daisy and her deadpan teasing could well read it as the unamused officer taking the shape of a suspect. For all it feels like ages since she's been in uniform.
[It may have been suggested to her to... talk to Jon. She's not convinced that is the best, as plans go, but... her therapist did say it's better to let things out, than bottle them up, didn't she? Still, Melanie isn't stupid, she's absolutely not doing this in person, she's not sure she could even if she wanted. She's still so mad about that unconsented surgery.]
[There's an awkwardly long pause before her next message. She knows she should follow up with that. She clearly wanted something and he would want to know what it was, but-- she's no good at this. She's not sure she's ever been good at this, and everything that's happened since she came here has made it so much worse and harder and--
Right. Talking. May as well just go with the brutal honest approach, yeah?]
I don't really know how to do this. I mean.
Look. You know I've done the therapy thing and she said I should talk to you. Not let my feelings..infect my life. Isn't that laughable? I mean. Given our lives and everything going on all the time, it's kind of a bloody riot, honestly. But yeah.
So... I dunno. I'm still pissed at you for what you did and I don't know what to do about it.
[There. She said it. And nothing has changed. She doesn't magically feel better. Her relationship with Jon isn't going to be wonderfully fixed all the sudden. She doesn't understand the point of this at all.]
[That... really isn't what he'd expected to hear from Melanie. They haven't been at each other's throats recently, but they also haven't really been interacting at all.
He stares at the message for a long time before he can even think about replying.]
I'm... I understand. And I don't now what would help either. You could hit me if you thought it would help?
[It is not uncommon these days to find Jon entering and leaving the Magnus Institute at odd hours of the day and night. Sometimes he works late enough that the tube has stopped running and by that point he might as well stay over rather than get a cab and have to return in a few hours. Sometimes he arrives back from a trip and needs to reference something and ends up working late only to leave again in the morning.
It's not like he ever had much of a healthy sleeping pattern anyway.
Today he enters the building a little after everyone would normally have gone home. Even the students who often stayed until the evening. He keeps his arm pressed against his side as he heads down to the Archive, teeth gritted with pain, and he can feel the blood starting to seep through his shirt. A pity, it was a nice one too.
The Archive is, mercifully, stocked with a wide variety of first aid kits these days, including a few things that normal first aid kits don't usually stock. He picks one up and roots through it to check it has what he needs before he starts to head back upstairs towards the bathroom. The one on the main floor has better lighting.]
[Elias could have left hours ago, ages really, but his Archivist was coming.
It was unusual, of course, and normally Elias would be at his flat, watching, resting, but today was different. Today, he lingered in his office until the sun had long since gone down and London filled with pockets of manmade lights, waiting for the final door to open to his Institute. It could be no one else, not because no one else would come in at this hour, but because Elias watched.
Come home, Jon. Come home.
So he waited until Jon was out, walking around upstairs, that first aid kit in his hand before Elias…“accidentally” ran into him. To make it marginally at least a little believable, he had some paperwork with him, charts and reports for funding versus output, so on, so forth, dry and boring. Forgettable. Nothing that would catch Jon’s attention.
They clearly had other things to discuss.]
Jon…?
[He raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering from first aid to his face.] Is everything all right?
[His face is pinched with pain and exhaustion, and he flinched when Elias approaches him, expecting some new and terrible hurt because that's all that seems to happen these days. Worms and wax and puppets and they all want him to suffer.]
If things were alright, I wouldn't be here.
[It comes out dry, but hoarse with pain, his voice ragged from it.]
[Another mark. Oh, how he hoped for another mark, another sign from another entity. Things had been moving sufficiently, but a little speed never harmed anyone.]
Dare I ask what happened?
[He did, by the way. Dare to ask. The question, while posed as a simple inquiry, had the makings of a demand underneath it, a need to know. Now. If you would please, Jon.
Which was why he waited a beat before following it up with--] If there is another threat to the Institute, it’s only fair I should be aware of it so I can protect the others.
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the_archivist) wrote2017-06-30 12:41 am
Happy Monsters
The Archivist sets the paper aside, and the world floods back to him in full colour. He is very cold, he realises, with a sort of distant curiosity. When he looks down at his fingers, they are white and frost has started to form on them. It lingers, even when he rubs them together. It spreads across his desk, a rime of white frost crystals, and his tea, already cold, is now frozen on top.
The Archivist smiles and takes a breath. He can smell sea brine even if the closest to the sea they get is the Thames.
"Hello Martin."
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Cold arms wrap around him from behind, followed by a face buried into the crook of his neck. The smell of aging books and dusty libraries is home for him and Martin tightens his grip as he soaks it in after five months abroad following the whims of his patron.
"Hello, Jon."
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From Martin it is familiar and feels like home.
He shivers when arms wrap around him, and he feels breath and cool skin against his neck. He closes his eyes and gives a soft hum of pleasure. "How long has it been?"
Time gets a little fuzzy for him these days, and he struggles to keep track. There is so much to learn, so many things to Know, and the days slide away. He just knows that when Martin is away it is always Too Long, and all the sweeter for it.
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Five months that felt like five years, dragged out with the longing to be back here breathing Jon's presence in like he needs it to live. The loneliness is another offering to his patron in exchange for these times when he can have Jon.
He marks a line in his journal every day he's gone, a physical reminder as he does his business. Now he sheds each of those days like a weight as he presses a kiss to Jon's jaw.
"Have you been taking care of yourself while I've been gone?"
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Feed the Beast
He knows that he'll want more again soon. He always does. It sustains him in a way that paper statements just cannot do. And slowly his humanity comes creeping back, and with it the guilt. The sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that he will have to live with for the rest of his life. And he savours that too. Because one day, one day he probably won't feel a flicker of guilt about anything.
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Except-
Except this keeps happening. He tastes the difference in the air as Jon comes back from his long lunch. The minutes ticking past the hour he should have been back by left a sick pit in Martin's stomach that left him unable to finish the leftover takeaway he had brought for himself.
Martin lets himself into Jon's office after a brief knock, not even waiting for an answer before he's stepping inside and sitting down across from him. He places a tape recorder on the desk between them and presses the record button. "Who was it this time, Jon?" He asks, and he wonders if he looks as tired as he feels.
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It's only when the record button clicks on that he seems to take notice, a siren's call, and he looks up at Martin with half-lidded eyes that blink slowly at him, like a cat that's half asleep and fed well.
And then he lays it out, the whole story with perfect clarity, mirroring that poor soul's experience with his words and his voice, each of them imbued with that primeval terror ripped out from dormancy. Finally he sighs and leans forwards, arms folded on the desk, and rests his head against them. "And then I came back here."
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Martin doesn't intend to let that happen.
"Statement ends." He says, clicking the recorder off with a sigh that's entirely more tired than Jon's is. He watches as the Archivist drowses, satisfied with the meal he pried from his victim's mind and wishes things could be different. "I think you ought to go have a lie down, Jon. You look tired." He looked happy, sated and that scares him. Better to send him off and hope that when he wakes up he remembers his human side again.
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NSFW ) Praise A Nerd
Pick the right equipment for the job, ensuring it's all sterilized and she has enough condoms on hand, and— well. She'll try not to spook him with all the details. The trust was already there, no? Months and months of friendship, of being subjected to this place, and Jon... likely wanting to take some form of control, she imagines, but that may not be quite right, either.
"Would you like to take a shower before we begin?"
She's already drawing him along by his fingertips, guiding him toward her bedroom as bare feet pad quietly on the hardwood— spacious, bed soft and walls done in navy with gold diamond frames, just like the living room. It seemed to be the theme of the place. The only thing she's likely added to the default room were extra coffee mugs for guests and the number of blankets strewn about, and even half of those were gifts. Her own attire's mostly just the oversized sweater nearly reaching her knees she's bundled in, material silky soft and fuzzy trumping even cashmere, having been winding down after a day of work and in no rush to get terribly decent for his arrival. She was comfortable as she was; she figured it would inspire the same in him as he toed off his shoes and entered her flat.
Re: NSFW ) Praise A Nerd
And who better to teach him than Angela?
He lets her guide him through the house, taking in the details of the place with greedy eyes before he manages to pull his attention back to her.
"Ah, a shower might be good," he agrees. It would feel less awkward to strip off for a shower, than it would to undress purely for sex. "I'm not- there are a lot of scars," he adds. He doesn't think she'll mind, but he feels like he should warn her anyway.
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There are signs of company through her flat, but no other signs of life. No roommates; not anymore. Once they're in her room, there's a door clearly leading to the spacious bathroom, and his acknowledgement has her leading him over to the doorway before she's drawing his hand up with the twine of their arms, pressing a kiss to the back of it. Her glance through her lashes is only a little mischievous. It's nothing new from her.
"You know I work with soldiers; scars are nothing new. Would you like some company...?"
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"I know, I just- they're unpleasant and I feel like I should warn you. It's polite." He certainly doesn't want to spring them on someone unprepared.
"And if you want to come in with me, i wouldn't object," he adds, a flush creeping up his cheeks.
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Once upon a time, that question would have sounded more menacing, coming from Daisy, a threat by way of insinuation. Over a pint, and with multiple nights of pints behind them,it's still not a harmless question but at least the claws are sheathed somewhat. She asks it steadily, with an air of the rhetorical- she's pretty sure Jonathan Sims has never been in a fight, at least not a serious one. But it can be good to check.
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"Not since I was a teenager."
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It's said without a hint of a smile, to the point where it anyone unfamiliar with Daisy and her deadpan teasing could well read it as the unamused officer taking the shape of a suspect. For all it feels like ages since she's been in uniform.
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He can see their point of view now. He'd been weird and an unpleasant child and worse teenager.
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Texts » around midnight
Hey.
Busy?
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[Which means no, no he isn't They've mostly stopped pretending that any work they do is actually useful.]
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[There's an awkwardly long pause before her next message. She knows she should follow up with that. She clearly wanted something and he would want to know what it was, but-- she's no good at this. She's not sure she's ever been good at this, and everything that's happened since she came here has made it so much worse and harder and--
Right.
Talking.
May as well just go with the brutal honest approach, yeah?]
I don't really know how to do this.
I mean.
Look.
You know I've done the therapy thing and she said I should talk to you. Not let my feelings..infect my life.
Isn't that laughable? I mean. Given our lives and everything going on all the time, it's kind of a bloody riot, honestly.
But yeah.
So... I dunno.
I'm still pissed at you for what you did and I don't know what to do about it.
[There. She said it.
And nothing has changed. She doesn't magically feel better. Her relationship with Jon isn't going to be wonderfully fixed all the sudden. She doesn't understand the point of this at all.]
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He stares at the message for a long time before he can even think about replying.]
I'm... I understand. And I don't now what would help either. You could hit me if you thought it would help?
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set two: one ● two ● three ● four ● five
shhhh I think u fell asleep so let me slide these in here, they were the softest I could find 😭 )
For Vee
It's not like he ever had much of a healthy sleeping pattern anyway.
Today he enters the building a little after everyone would normally have gone home. Even the students who often stayed until the evening. He keeps his arm pressed against his side as he heads down to the Archive, teeth gritted with pain, and he can feel the blood starting to seep through his shirt. A pity, it was a nice one too.
The Archive is, mercifully, stocked with a wide variety of first aid kits these days, including a few things that normal first aid kits don't usually stock. He picks one up and roots through it to check it has what he needs before he starts to head back upstairs towards the bathroom. The one on the main floor has better lighting.]
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It was unusual, of course, and normally Elias would be at his flat, watching, resting, but today was different. Today, he lingered in his office until the sun had long since gone down and London filled with pockets of manmade lights, waiting for the final door to open to his Institute. It could be no one else, not because no one else would come in at this hour, but because Elias watched.
Come home, Jon. Come home.
So he waited until Jon was out, walking around upstairs, that first aid kit in his hand before Elias…“accidentally” ran into him. To make it marginally at least a little believable, he had some paperwork with him, charts and reports for funding versus output, so on, so forth, dry and boring. Forgettable. Nothing that would catch Jon’s attention.
They clearly had other things to discuss.]
Jon…?
[He raised an eyebrow, eyes flickering from first aid to his face.] Is everything all right?
[This…this was almost too easy.]
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If things were alright, I wouldn't be here.
[It comes out dry, but hoarse with pain, his voice ragged from it.]
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Dare I ask what happened?
[He did, by the way. Dare to ask. The question, while posed as a simple inquiry, had the makings of a demand underneath it, a need to know. Now. If you would please, Jon.
Which was why he waited a beat before following it up with--] If there is another threat to the Institute, it’s only fair I should be aware of it so I can protect the others.
[Yes. Right. Of course.]
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