Work Text:
Halloween at the Magnus Institute was an… interesting time. Being the premiere repository for first-hand accounts of supernatural encounters meant that every wannabe ghost hunter traipsing through a supposedly haunted house during "spooky season" would then flock to the institute to tell the tale of their encounter. (And that wasn't even counting those who came in to give obviously false statement just for the fun of it.)
Jon had hoped, desperately, that his recent promotion to Head Archivist would mean that the Halloween rush would not be something he was forced to endure this year. Unfortunately for him, this was not to be. So it was that on the day of Halloween itself, Jonathan Sims found himself sneaking back to the the break room in the Archives for a few minutes of peace and quiet. And if anyone asked, he could just say that he'd been getting himself a cup of tea.
Apparently, Jon had not been the only member of his team thinking along these lines. Upon pushing the door open, he saw Martin Blackwood patiently waiting for the kettle to boil.
Did it have to be him?
Martin had turned upon hearing the door open, habitual nervous smile on his face.
"O-oh, hey Jon. Tea?" he said, gesturing with an empty mug.
Jon grunted in assent, hoping Martin would take the hint and not try to engage him in pointless small talk. Not that the awkward silence that ensued instead was much better, but at least it wasn't aggravating Jon's growing headache.
A few minutes later, and a steaming mug of earl grey was pushed across the break room table towards him.
"…thanks," he said begrudgingly. Martin was perhaps not the most useful member of his team, but even Jon could admit that the man made a very good cup of tea.
With Martin here, Jon couldn't really continue to use the break room as an escape from the chaos upstairs, not now that he had the tea that he had allegedly come here for. Stifling a sigh, he pulled open the door to the break room, and nearly dropped his mug as he realized that the room he was looking into was not, in fact, the bullpen of the archives.
In fact, it appeared to be the living room of a cozy flat, or perhaps a small house.
The door opening to the wrong place wasn't what scared Jon. Not really.
What scared him what was in the room. Or rather, who.
On the couch in the living room were two men, who had very clearly been… snogging… before the opening of the door had interrupted them. Both men were now looking towards the open door with bewildered expressions.
One of them was wearing Jon's face.
This was, understandably, quite distressing for Jon.
(The other man was wearing Martin's face. This was also distressing, but for rather different reasons.)
The real Martin, the one standing beside him the the break room of the institute, also seemed to have processed the apparent identities of the men on the couch. His mug clattered to the ground, spilling the still hot tea across the linoleum, and he made a strange, almost choking sound.
Jon could not turn to what his face looked like though, as Jon found that his body didn't seem to be responding to his commands. He was frozen, staring, at a person who couldn't possibly be him, and yet was, sat practically in the lap of a doppelganger of his least favorite assistant.
What the fuck, his mind was repeating incessantly. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.
And, beneath the panic, but no less insistent: But why him??
Thankfully, Martin did not seem to have completely frozen up in response to this… vision… as Jon had, and Jon found the break room door wrenched out of his hand and slammed shut with surprising force.
The seemed to break the paralysis that had afflicted him, and Jon stumbled a few steps backward, thankfully hitting the break room table before he could fall on his ass.
"What," Martin gasped, "the hell was that?" There was a tinge of panic in his voice, and his eyes were wild behind his round glasses as he half turned to stare at Jon, still holding the door closed.
"I have absolutely no idea," Jon said faintly. "And quite frankly, I'd just as soon forget any of this ever happened."
Martin nodded fervently. "Yep. Good, sounds great."
Well, at least they were on the same page there. Thank goodness for small miracles. If Tim and Sasha ever got wind of this, he'd never hear the end of it.
Cautiously, Martin pulled the door open a few inches. He heaved a sigh of relief.
"Okay, looks like the coast is clear."
Together, the two made their way back upstairs to the research department, determined to dismiss… whatever it was they had just witnessed. And for the most part, they were successful.
At least, Jon was.
Martin managed to put it from his mind for several months, until, lying on a cot in the archives after Jon had believed him about being trapped by Jane Prentiss, it suddenly came back.
"…fuck."
Meanwhile, Somewhere Else, Jon and Martin Blackwood stared in bafflement at the door to their hall closet that had just slammed itself shut.
"You, uh, you saw that too, right?" Martin asked, his voice squeaking.
"If you mean: did I see two younger versions of us looking about ready to pass out in what appeared to be the archives' break room, then yes, I did," Jon replied.
Extracting himself from the couch, Jon padded over to the door in question. It looked ordinary enough. Opening it, he saw only their jackets, and the other odds and ends that had been stuffed in there to keep them out of the way.
"Anything?" Martin called from the couch.
"Nothing," Jon said, shutting the door again. "Just a perfectly normal closet."
He sat back on the couch. Martin was biting his lip in a way that indicated he wanted to say something, but wasn't sure if he should. Jon squeezed his hand.
"It's just… it can't be the Fears, right? I mean, we haven't seen anything since we got here, and that wasn't…."
Jon ran his thumb across Martin's knuckles. "No, I—I think you're right. This wasn't… it didn't feel like them. I have no idea what this was, but it didn't feel malicious. Though, our younger selves may not agree with me," he added with a laugh.
Martin snorted, then leaned forward to kiss Jon on the forehead.
"What's this, mister paranoia here telling me not to worry about something? It's a Halloween miracle," he teased.
Jon rolled his eyes, but couldn't quite keep the fond smile off his face. "Speaking of Halloween, weren't we supposed to be picking a movie to watch?"
"You mean before we got distracted?"
"Yes," Jon said, leaning back against Martin's chest. "But no Dracula movies, I won't stand for any of that Mina Harker slander."
Martin laughed again. "Of course not! I'm sure we'll manage to find something up to your standards."
And, picking up the remote, the two settled in for a quiet evening, where the only fear was the kind that could be banished at the click of a button.