Work Text:
“End recording.” The words come out instinctually by now, after months upon months of repetition that could've had Jon reciting the exact format of statements in his sleep—not that he got much of it anyways. It eluded him even on the best of days, and the piles of papers that sat in his house might've possibly spent more time in his bed than he has.
He moves to sort through the mess of papers that could generously be called a stack, but a knock on the door startles Jon enough to send the pen in his hand flying off his desk and onto the floor.
“Come in,”Jon calls, opting to leave the pen on the floor. He'll get it later. Spending hours on end hunched over his desk makes him doubt he'd be able to pick it up without substantial struggle.
The door creaks open and Tim’s head pokes through. “Hey boss!”
The twinkle in his eye does not bode well for Jon’s sanity, but he unfortunately cannot chase his assistant away, so he endures the company regardless.
Tim scoots into the room, leaving the door behind him as he makes his way to Jon with his usual swagger. “Sooooo, boss, what would you say if we held an Archives Only costume party here? Or a sleepover costume party? You know, since Halloween’s coming up and all that.”
“I would say no, Tim . ”
“Aww, why not?” Tim bends down and leans over the wooden desk, giving Jon an exaggerated pout that nearly elicits a deep suffering sigh from him. “Come on, it's for team building! Morale! It'd make us more productive!”
Jon gives him an incredulous look. “I fail to see how this would increase productivity.”
“Well, if you don't agree, I'll be sad. Marto will be sad. Sasha will have to deal with us being sad, and you have to deal with her dealing with us being sad,” Tim explains, staring at Jon dead in the eye as if any of it made sense.
“I–what?”
“Yeah, exactly! Besides, you barely even leave the building as it is. You gotta loosen up a bit, boss. If you're going to stay here practically 24/7, you might as well be productive with your time.”
“Tim, this is the exact opposite of productivity.”
Tim lets out a loud, dramatic sigh, standing up and shaking his head with the most comically disappointed expression Jon has ever seen on the man's face. “Okay, time to bring out the big guns.”
“The answer is still no, Tim. Nothing you say will change the fact that this is highly unprofessional.”
“I'll do phone duty. For a month.”
From behind Tim, Jon spies Sasha and Martin watching the interaction through the wide open door. Martin is trying to hide his gaze behind a piece of paper surprisingly subtly whereas Sasha blatantly stares at them as she sips a cup of something or other.
“Tim, don't push him, maybe he just doesn't have anything other than sweater vests in his closet,” Sasha calls out. “Would be a bit of a hassle if he needed to get new clothing just for one party.”
“I do not!” Jon can't help but protest. “My closet isn't just full of sweater vests.”
He realises his mistake the moment the words leave his lips, and Tim realises it too as his gaze turns positively predatory, as if he's hit the jackpot. “ Prove it .”
“I've no reason to prove myself to you,” Jon defends.
“Well then, I guess you really just have only sweater vests. Don't worry, that's nothing to be embarrassed about, no one’s expecting you to have—”
Jon slams a hand down onto the table. It would've been more dramatic had he had more strength, but the soft thud of wood doesn't quite have the effect Jon was going for. Still, Tim’s jaw snaps shut.
“Fine! Fine, I'll allow it, as long as it's entirely appropriate and the Archives do not end up more of a mess than it already is.” Behind Tim, small cheers from Martin and Sasha can be heard. Jon resolutely ignores them.
“No offence boss, but you could probably light fireworks here and blend like ten smoothies without the blender cap on and it'd still be about as bad as it is right now.” That's…
Admittedly, Tim has a point, but Jon refuses to admit that to his face, so he opts to simply ignore that comment. The mess was Gertrude’s doing, after all.
“Regardless. Additionally, all costumes have to be workplace appropriate, Tim . ”
“I came here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now.”
“ Tim .”
Tim raises his hands up on surrender, walking towards the door. “Alrighty, boss! Got it! No taking it back, you've got to show up next Friday in the best costume we've ever seen.”
“I don't believe that was in the requirements—”
The door shuts. Another louder bout of cheering echoes through the Archives.
Jon regrets all his life decisions.
_____
It takes longer than Jon would admit to come up with any semblance of an idea on what to wear. There's a thin line between maintaining his dignity and proving that no, his wardrobe is not simply composed of sweater vests, Sasha , and he's not entirely sure he's capable of staying on that line.
Jon’s tempted to text George about it, but he's certain all he'd get from her is laughter at his predicament. And maybe a picture of the Admiral, if he's lucky.
He's not entirely sure why it matters so much to prove that his wardrobe isn't simply made out of one type of clothing. It's never been of much importance to him, and his work in the Archives doesn't require much as long as he comes in presentable.
Jon is also aware that Sasha was likely trying to goad him when she made that comment, but he's stubborn on the best of days and he's chosen his hill to die on, and die on it he shall—though he still curses his past self’s impulsiveness. He's dug himself a hole that he's unwilling to get out of.
On the bright side, Tim has to take phone duty. For a month. At least something of value had come from that conversation.
It takes him until the following Monday for an idea to spring forth, and surprisingly enough, Martin was the one who inspired it.
He certainly didn't do it on purpose, Jon’s pretty sure, but he finds himself grudgingly grateful nonetheless.
The day starts off as usual, with Jon situated in his office for most of the day as he sorts through what feels like never-ending amounts of workload. He silently curses Gertrude and her abysmal filing system as he flips through pages upon pages of statements. He swears one of those pages might've had lizard poop on it, but he lost the page when he flipped through the stacks and he can't seem to find it anymore.
An all-too-familiar sound startles him out of his seat, and he barely manages to stabilise himself as it reverberates within the cluttered walls of the Archives. For a brief moment he wonders if one of them found out about…that. If someone had gone digging through his university days and stumbled upon his extracurricular activities back then.
“ My friends, my people, my flock. I have had a vision!”
The song cuts off abruptly, and Martin’s faint, “Sorry, I've got to take this call,” has Jon relaxing back into his chair again. Martin probably hadn't found out about his university days. The song was not a pointed jab at him.
There's a few minutes of silence as Martin likely answers the phone, and he announces his return to his desk with the ear-piercing screech of his chair being dragged across the floor. Jon wishes he could blame Martin for that, but he's well aware that none of the Archive furniture has been replaced in what felt like twenty decades at least. Martin could've lifted the chair over his head and it'd still have made some variance of the borderline demonic noise from the seven circles of Hell.
Jon hopes that Elias heard it. It's a pipe dream, sure, but he thinks Elias deserves to hear it anyway.
“What was that song, Marto? Didn't know that was your kind of music!”
“Yeah, what was that? Sounded pretty interesting, actually,” Jon hears Sasha add.
“Oh! Uh, Hellfire. It's by this band called the Mechanisms, they're a band of immortal space pirates who…”
Jon listens, mildly impressed as Martin practically recites the entire dialogue bit from Tales To Be Told, introducing the entire band in the exact manner Jon recalls doing all those years ago. It's almost uncanny hearing it in Martin’s voice, especially when he takes on a bit of the Jonny brand of gravel.
He's even more impressed when it eventually leads to Martin rattling off the band's lore, even including information Jon is positive could only be found in the fictions on their website.
At this rate he might know the Mechanisms better than Jon does, and isn't that a horrifying thought.
He can't deny the hint of satisfaction that curls up in his gut as he listens to Martin’s clearly passionate retellings of High Noon Over Camelot, littered with praise and not-so-subtle urges to listen to the albums.
Being Jonny D'Ville isn't something he'd like to advertise to people, especially considering how he needs to maintain his workplace dignity, but in that moment he can't help but feel a sense of pride. The band had disbanded a while ago and their fanbase had never been the largest, so Jon had been under the impression that most would've lost interest in their songs by now.
“Hey, wonder what'd happen if we got Jon to listen to this,” Tim jokes. “Reckon he'd lose his mind?”
There's a faint murmur that Jon’s pretty sure comes from Sasha, but he can't make it out through the door, muffled as it is. The snort that Tim lets out is loud enough for Jon to hear, though, so he could infer.
At Tim’s joking suggestion, Martin delves into a stuttering sequence of mismatched phrases that could mostly just be summed up as “no”. Jon can't help but feel mildly insulted, considering that this was his band, but he supposes that if his assistants expected him to be in a steampunk space pirate band, there was likely no professional respect between them.
An idea worms its way into Jon’s mind, though, and as much as he tries to argue with himself about the practicalities of it, he can't deny how tempting it was. He's sure Georgie would approve, too, as their backstage technician in at least 99% of their performances.
Jonny D'Ville may have died in a bar fight, but death never quite stuck to the Mechanisms.
Besides, Jonny was simply never bound by mortal limitations such as timelines.
————
The harmonica that had sat in the corner of Jon’s cupboard for years still seemed to be in good condition, thankfully, save for a bit of dust coating its surface. The same could thankfully be said for his old D’Ville outfit, with the layers still in the same condition as he remembers.
Fortunately, all of the clothes still fit him, even if it takes him a while to recall how the abundance of belts were placed.
He packs everything into his bag and hopes the bulge goes mostly unnoticed, or at the very least, unquestioned.
On the way to the Institute, Jon sets an alarm on his phone an hour and a half before the party supposedly starts. It gives him enough time to do his makeup and assemble his outfit, perhaps even practice a few more times for good measure.
He refuses to mess up a role that welcomes him home. Especially not in front of someone who could recite the entirety of High Noon Over Camelot from memory. God, he'd never live it down if he messes up a song he'd helped bring to life. He'd give up his title as captain.
He can practically hear the call of ‘First mate!’ in his mind.
The anticipation in his gut stews and threatens to boil over as the hours pass, distracting him from the statements and follow-ups strewn across his desk. He attempts to get back on track properly, but his fingers refuse to stop fidgeting and his mind refuses to stop drifting so he merely sits in his restlessness. Fortunately, he spends the day holed up in his office anyways, so none of the assistants took note of his sudden impatience.
He's torn between urging time to quicken and hoping it slows, but he's hardly one with any power over its passage and his alarm rings eventually.
Jon turns the alarm off right as it rings, hoping that none of the others heard. It'd raise questions, and he's not sure how he'd answer them without ruining his timed entrance.
As quietly as he can manage, Jon locks the door to his office and unpacks everything, clearing up his desk to make space for the portable mirror he brought.
It's been years since he'd applied mascara for Jonny’s signature eyes, but muscle memory guides him through the steps with shaky hands. It doesn't turn out as steady as he would've liked, but one could argue that death changes a man and Jonny is no exception.
The clothes come on next, and he's gone through the motions so quickly that by the time he's finished, there's still forty-five minutes left. Outside the door, he hears the others packing up, likely preparing for the party too.
Tim had declared himself to be in charge of activities when Jon first agreed, though no one knew what exactly he had in mind. Sasha and Martin were in charge of snacks, and Jon…
Well, apparently Jon had just been expected to show up, since none of them had anticipated him actually agreeing to it.
The noise of furniture and the like being set up fills the Archives, and for once Jon doesn't find himself minding the commotion. It helped to cover up the harmonica music that undoubtedly slipped past his office door.
————
“Hey, Tim?”
“Yeah, Marto?”
“D’you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“Someone's playing a harmonica, I think.”
Tim opens his mouth to joke about spooky harmonicas and possibly murderous music, but he's pretty sure he'd jinx it if he says it out loud.
————
“Jon? Jon, are you in there?” Jon abruptly stops playing the harmonica at the sound of Sasha’s voice calling him.
“Yes, uh, just give me a few moments, please,” he answers, “I'm still, ah, getting ready.”
Which was a partial lie, but the timing wasn't quite right yet, so one could say he was still getting ready.
“Jon, the statements can wait till next week. Come on, Tim’s about to vibrate himself out of his own skin if you take too long.”
Jon waits for her footsteps to fade away, then makes his way towards the door. He leans his ear against the cool wood, hoping that he could find the right time to make an entrance.
“Did Jon chicken out or something? It's been ten minutes!”
“Tim, be glad he didn't completely forget about the party. At least he's not recording a statement or something. He's probably just getting ready.”
“Hey, what'd you reckon he's dressing up as?” Martin asks.
Jon listens and lets them wonder, waiting. After all, any good showman knows of narrative flow and perfect timings.
————
“Definitely nothing as brilliant as yours, Marto. Shame Elias isn't seeing this, he'd probably faint from how you've ‘defiled the memory of our Institute’s renowned founder’ or something,” Tim jokes.
Martin's decked out in a near replica of the portrait of Jonah Magnus that could be found all over the Institute. He even had the monocle to match.
Near replica was the key word, since all over the crisp suit were rows upon rows of googly eyes lined up perfectly on the faint green stripes running through the cloth. It even extended to the length of his arms, the little black circles jiggling around comically as Martin moves to adjust the sleeves.
When Tim first saw it, he laughed so hard neither Sasha nor Martin could peel him off the floor, though Sasha seemed at though she wanted to join him.
Truth to be told, it was only by pure luck that Martin managed to find the suit in a rental. He definitely couldn't afford to get one, not with his mother's medical fees to add on to the eighth circle of hell by the name of rent. The eyes took longer than he'd liked, but with the reception he got, he thinks it was time well spent.
Unlike Tim, though, he doesn't exactly want Elias to find out. No amount of comedic effect, if any, would let him survive that encounter.
… Alright, maybe it'd be a bit funny.
But still.
Martin leans back against the bean bags that he'd helped Sasha smuggle into the Archives from the break room, though how no one noticed was still a mystery to him. The fact that they'd managed to clear enough space on the floor to fit the bean bags was nothing short of a miracle.
“So, Tim,” Sasha starts, “what exactly did you plan for ‘entertainment’?”
The way she asks it reminds Martin vaguely of a teacher talking to a toddler who'd picked up an odd insect or two and brought it into the classroom, which… actually, was a tone she took on quite often. Hearing it from her in a full cosplay of Gandalf, however, has him choking on a snort that he manages to disguise as a cough.
The fake beard swishing around didn't help.
Neither did the neon green eyesore of a dinosaur costume Tim somehow managed to get his hands on.
“Well, Gandalf the Grey, that is for me to know and for you to find out!”
And then he grabs his bag, pulls out at least five different CDs, a CD player and…
“How did you even get a projector into your bag?” Martin can't help but ask.
Time doesn't answer, instead pulling out a small speaker from the bottom of his bag and placing it on top of the projector. Which he just… has. For some reason.
Sasha’s also staring at him in stunned silence. “Tim. Tim, how .”
Tim puffs his chest out in pride. “I am a man of many talents! Now, Marto, how would you feel about playing some Mechs while we wait? Boss can't complain about our music tastes if he's not here yet.”
“Tim, he's literally a few metres away.”
Martin still pulls out his phone and connects it to Tim’s speaker, though, and scrolls through his playlists to find a fitting song.
He eventually settles on one. “Here, it's their opening song for live performances. It's the same motif as One Eyed Jacks, actually—”
He cuts himself off as the song starts, frowning in confusion as a harmonica of all things join in on the opening tune. “What-?”
BANG .
The door to Jon’s office flies open, slamming against the wall so hard Martin swears the handle could've gotten lodged into the wall if it was any harder. Jon himself swaggers— swaggers —out through the doorway, streaks of black lining around his eyes and a prop gun at his hip as he saunters forward in a manner that Martin can only describe as Jonny D'Ville.
A soft murmur of “fuck off” slips out under his breath as all of them stare.
Jon seemingly ignores them, pulling the gun out of his belt—one of them, anyway—and twirling it around in one smooth motion as he continues the song in an exact mimicry of the audio recording, Jonny’s gravel and all.
“LIKE WHISKEY LACED WITH GASOLINE, WE'RE DEADLY WHEN WE'RE DRUNK,
SO SHUT YOUR FACE AND SETTLE DOWN YOU SNEERING LITTLE PUNKS!
FOR SPACE IS VAST, YOU ARE SMALL, IT'S BLACK AND BITTER COLD,
THE BOOK IS LYING OPEN, THERE ARE TALES TO BE TOLD!”
Jon— Jonny — ends the stanza with a flourish, dramatically bowing to the three people that made up the entirety of the audience and pointing the prop gun at them with a manic grin that…
Well, it was lucky Tim and Sasha didn't turn to look at him, since he was sure his entire face was red enough to constitute as a complementary colour for his suit’s green.
“Killers and renegades, liars and thieves—”
“YOU'RE JONNY D'VILLE?!” Tim cries, pointing at Jon with one of his stubby T-Rex arms. Martin would've laughed if he wasn't so absolutely floored, because what.
Jon—no, Jonny—lets out a put upon sigh, pointing the prop gun at Tim. “Questions after the performance, mortal. The show's only just started.”
Sasha, who's been gaping in stunned silence the entire time, snaps her jaw shut. Jon’s gaze follows the sound, and the sheer level of flabbergasted on Gandalf’s face sends Martin’s boss into a fit of truly Jonny cackles that has him questioning his entire life.
“But yes, I am Jonny D'Ville, captain of the Starship Aurora—”
“First mate!” Martin blurts out. His face heats up as Jon holy shit Jonny levels him with a glare.
“Really? I died and you still can't give me this?” Jon throws his hands up in exaggerated defeat. “Ungrateful little shits.”
Tales to be Told continues playing in the background, and when the recorded Jonny finishes introducing the crew members, Jon joins the recording again and finishes the song. It's a surreal experience, hearing two Jonnys at once while the man himself stands before them, even more so when said man is also their boss.
And then he finally, finally breaks character and slips into the ‘Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute’ stance. It's an almost baffling contrast to the steampunk vibes of Jonny D'Ville’s clothing, leaving Martin with so much whiplash that he's certain any more would give him a heart attack.
“Holy shit,” Martin breathes out, “my boss is Jonny D'Ville.”
Jon gives him a nod of acknowledgement, moving to turn around before doing a double take. “Martin, is that-?”
“Yeah?”
Jon starts. Stops. “You should give that suit to Elias. It'd suit him.”
“Yo? Boss? Mr Jonathan-I-am-the-epitome-of-workplace-professionalisim-but-is-actually-an-immortal-space-pirate-Sims is taking the piss on Big Boss?” Tim lies down on the floor. “I can die in peace now.”
“No, you can't. You still have a month of phone duty, Tim,” Sasha points out, poking Tim in the face with Gandalf’s staff. “I'm not picking up your slack.”
“Worth it.”
Jon sighs. “If I'd known this was what it took for you to do your work, Tim, I'd have done it long ago.”
If you'd done it earlier, Martin thinks, I would've died of a heart attack.
“Why didn't you tell us, though? I've known you for years and you never even mentioned it,” Sasha points out.
Tim nods. “Absolute betrayal, Boss, this should've been the first thing you told me when we first met.”
“To be fair, Tim, you only heard of the Mechanisms a few days ago when I told you about them, ” Martin says, thankful that his voice manages to be steadier than he feels. “I don't think you would've believed him.”
“And I had—and still have—a reputation to maintain, Tim. Going around the Institute announcing my… past space pirate shenanigans would hardly garner much respect.”
“Actually, uh, I think you might be underestimating how cool this is,” Martin pipes up, “I would've freaked out if I knew you were Jonny D'Ville earlier. In a good way, I mean. You were practically my celebrity crush—”
He cuts himself off, slapping his hands over his mouth. Why did he say that?! He would like to dig a hole and die now.
“I was hardly a celebrity—” Jon pauses. “Wait, what?”
“Holy shit, Marto, you didn't tell us that before,” Tim laughs. Martin stiffens in embarrassment as Tim attempts to sling a T-Rex arm around his shoulder. “Can't believe you had a crush on Boss before you even met him!”
He pauses. “Though, I do see the appeal. The whole steampunk thing really suits him, actually. Especially the eyes. You should do this more, boss, make the ladies swoon. Or whoever’s direction you swing to, for that matter.”
The look Jon shoots Tim is so dry that Martin’s pretty sure it could've turned the Pacific ocean into the Sahara desert.
“Which way I swing is none of your business, Tim. And I'm hardly going to show up to work in this.”
“It does suit you, though,” Martin blurts out. “The-the eyes, I mean.”
“...thank you, Martin.”
There's an awkward silence that none of them quite know how to fill. Martin is distinctly aware of both Tim and Sasha watching them like some kind of soap opera, but he resolutely ignored them in favour of looking absolutely everywhere that wasn't in Jon’s direction.
Hm, the floor looks particularly interesting today.
“Well, that was fun, who wants to play Monopoly?” Tim cuts through the silence after what feels like hours. Somehow, he drags out at least seven different board games, along with an Uno deck from his—wait, his second bag?
“Tim, how many bags did you bring?” Sasha asks.
“Three,” Tim replies proudly, pointing to two other identical bags in the corner where his desk had been pushed to. “One’s my work bag, one for games and one for movies! And the speaker. And the projector.”
“And the CD player, apparently,” Sasha adds.
“Yeah, that too. Plus the wires.”
Jon stares at Tim before taking in the mountain of stuff that cluttered all over the floor. The snacks that Martin and Sasha brought were supposed to surround the four of them had been moved away to make space for everything Tim managed to bring.
“Tim,” Jon says slowly, “how long were you planning for this party to be?”
“Just wanted to give you guys options,” Tim replies, spreading his arms out in a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “Anyways, Monopoly? Uno? Mahjong? Scrabble?”
“Tim, you brought an entire DND manual?” Sasha asks incredulously, picking it up from the floor.
“Like I said, options! Or… karaoke? We have a speaker. No mics, though, but I don't think we'd need those.”
————
They ended up with karaoke for two hours straight. Martin’s throat has never felt so dry in his life.
Seeing Jon do Hellfire in full Galahad mode made it all worth it, though. He's going to treasure this day till the end of his days.
It wouldn't hurt if Tim shared the recordings either. He's going to ask Tim for all of them after the party.