Several times recently I’ve found myself making tea whilst listening to The Magnus Archives, and as a result I’ve developed a silly little headcanon…
I’m not sure if it’s a nationwide thing, but certainly throughout my life I’ve experienced the weird stigma of having sugar in your tea. It’s not direct or aggressive, but there always seems to be this vague notion that sweetening your tea makes you less strong, less manly. I rarely see men ask for sugar, and often observe an obvious proudness in teenage boys when they say “no sugar, thanks.”
Picture Jonathan Sims, newly appointed archivist, worried he’s not good enough, placed haphazardly in power of people who were very recently peers, and desperately trying to prove he’s the right man for the job. Everything seems to be falling apart a bit, and he’s not at all sure his assistants have any faith in him; he had to ask for a tape recorder because he couldn’t get his laptop to work properly - that’s embarrassing.
Now imagine Martin: office sweetheart, gets along with pretty much anyone, just moved to a new position working with two close friends, and the attractive guy from research is his boss (he’s a bit rude and stuck up, but it’s probably just the stress, right?). He’s pretty comfortable! Aside from the occasional snide remark from Jon it is a good job, which is especially pleasing considering how he got to work at the institute in the first place.
Two opposing forces, as we all well know! But what’s better at building bridges than a nice cup of tea? Martin makes a lot of tea, but I like to think he memorises how everyone takes theirs. Regardless, he has to ask at least once.
And so, kind, sweet, gentle Martin, his offer of a cup of tea promptly accepted, would have the misfortune of saying, “do you take that with sugar?” to an embarrassed, flustered Jon, who’s trying desperately not to confront any romantic feelings he might have hidden away. The ensuing scoff and slightly too enthusiastic ‘No! Thank you.’ would be enough to remember that preference for a while.
As times go on, hundreds of cups of tea later, things get less tense between the pair, and Martin never has to revisit the question; but late one night, shortly before Jon is to leave for Great Yarmouth and Martin is to risk it all to take down Elias, Jon places a hand gently on Martin’s shoulder and asks “Could I have a cup of tea?”. Of course Martin says yes, it’s the least he could do, but as he turns to go and make it, Jon calls out again. “With sugar, please.”
Just a tiny vulnerability, but enough. By that point most of Jon’s facade has been torn roughly away many times, but letting go of small points of pride often means more than non-deliberate actions. Having enough bravery to admit to liking something soft and sweet is harder than you’d think.
Maybe during those six months after, Martin would watch the sugar dissolve into his own tea with a painful melancholy, the sweetness a bitter memory.
I have this headcanon that when Jon wakes up from his coma he finds his nose slightly crooked. It’s not awful, not terribly noticeable, but certainly not how it was before. No doctor would question it, nor a visiting acquaintance; he survived a massive explosion and the collapse of a building, a broken nose is a logical injury.
It puzzles him though. If his nose broke, why not his fingers? Why not a fractured skull? He doesn’t remember it with any great clarity but surely he wouldn’t only break his nose, that couldn’t be it. But alas, who could he ask? The only other survivor was Basira and she would know even less than he.
As heals, returns to the archives, and becomes used to that slight bend to the left on the bridge of his nose, things do come back, bit by bit. Flashes of things from the unknowing, a story with each scene jumbled like an unsolved puzzle. Faces, voices, sensations, and a disgustingly heavy sense of unease, of guilt.
He remembers dancing most of all. It makes sense, the unknowing is a dance after all, but that doesn’t make it any less unpleasant. That happens near the end of it all, he recalls, but that couldn’t possibly have caused his broken nose, could it? Nikola was certainly rough with him, but what reason would she have to go near his face? Her dance was painful, but precise.
He remembers making eye contact with Basira as they were pulled into the theatre - a split second of connection, a sharing of terror as control and comprehension fell away into the abyss… But those things don’t bear thinking about.
Sometimes days, weeks go by without remembering a single thing, without even thinking about it. It’s never long enough though, and little things in every day life can twist in a second to a harsh memory. A teaspoon clinking on the edge of a cup turns to the high pitched squeal of a pipe organ; the growl of a dog turns to the groans of something else.
One day, crammed into a crowded train, Jon finds himself facing a tall stranger. The train slams to an unexpected stop sending him flying into the man, his nose crushing against a solid shoulder, releasing an explosion of pain and an entirely unexpected memory.
Just before the detonator was triggered, a scuffle on the floor (or what felt like it at the time), he’d fallen hard. A hand pressed into his face wrenching his nose to the side but the pain barely registered at the time because that wasn’t important! Because what really mattered was Tim. It had been Tim!
The final act of aggression that had lead to the destruction of the ritual, that horrible moment that saved everything, it had left a mark. Though a painful memory to have so clearly attached to oneself, there’s a strange joy in its origin, knowing it wasn’t left by something truly evil.
It’s an odd comfort really, to know that such a mark was left by a friend, an ally. But as sweet as the relief is, the bitter knowledge remains; Tim is gone forever, and that mark is a reminder of it in every reflection.