hisimisms
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”I’ll take care of you,” Martin says as he takes his first steps forward in a new world, examines his surroundings with a critical gaze.
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In the absence of bodies, there must of course be the possibility of life.
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Jon returns to the Institute a week and 4 days later to see a dead man lying on a desk.
”Tim?”
They meet eyes, and Jon is the first to look away. Tim scoffs and slides off the desk to stand, walking towards Jon soundlessly.
Face to face they stand, and Tim says at last, “Of course you’re the only one who can fucking see me. Of course.”
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A corpse walks again, Jon repents for his sins, and all is most certainly not forgiven.
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”Glad you think my poetry’s mundane,” Martin says drily.
Jon looks stricken at Martin’s comment, and blurts out, “I didn’t mean it like that, I only–”
”Joking, joking.”
”O-oh,” Jon says. He looks relieved. Odd. Martin wouldn’t have pegged him as the type to care about whether he offended someone. Especially if that someone was Martin Blackwood.
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Conversations past the witching hour, with tea to get you by.
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“People deserve nice things,” he says simply. And when Jon opens his mouth to interrupt, to refute the statement because he doesn’t deserve nice things, he doesn’t count as ‘people', Martin continues, “Yes, Jon. Even you.”
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At the end of all things, there will always be comfort in being loved.
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Martin watches Jon slip out from beneath the covers each night, disappearing out the front door like a ghost. He does not ask, in the morning. No matter how much he wants to, he does not ask.
And in the end, they never do speak of it.
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In which the world is reborn, and not everything can be perfect.
Recent series
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Before the Archives, there was the research department. Before Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, there was Jonathan Sims, researcher. And there was Tim, and there was Sasha. They were happy together, for a while.
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