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nature has taught her creatures to hate by thepolysyndetonaddictsupportgroup
Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
30 Mar 2025
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Summary
The door to Mr. Spider's home closes, and Tommy Bradstaff disappears behind it, and the book does not.
Jon picks it up.
Or:
Sometimes Jon wonders who he'd be if Gertrude had taken his Statement that day.
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Occasionally, she sent him emails, mostly to ask him not to leave cursed objects at his desk but once to forward him an article called Is Your Work-Life Balance Healthy? Take this Quick and Easy Quiz to Find Out! and another article called Work-Life Balance: Tips to Regain Control.
Jon had fallen into a category that read You are in serious danger of incurring a stress-related illness or injury. You could cause irreversible damage to your health.
Which was both obvious and a bit too late, really.
Unfortunately, it recommended either a sabbatical, a new job, setting boundaries, or more support from family and friends, all of which was rather out of the question. He did, however, send a reply to Margaret with the subject line “Re: Work-Life Balance” and a body which read “will consider a hobby when no longer metaphysically bound to a monument of terror. do u have any good book recommendations for such a time. preferable no cursed books — js.”
She replied with a frowning emoticon, and stopped forwarding self-help articles.
Danny says, “He tried to eat me.”
“But he didn’t,” says Jon, helpfully.
“He tried to eat me.”
“Yes, well.” Jon coughs slightly. “Nothing to be done for it now. Avoid the architecture of Robert Smirke, alright? And clowns. And it would be best if you never went to another circus again. And, uh, if you start to hear, uh, odd music, like a calliope organ, I would recommend moving to another, well, continent.” He nods, once, to himself. “That should be it.”
“Move to another continent?” parrots Danny, faintly.
He looks a bit pale, and a bit like he’s going to collapse, which are both normal, healthy reactions to this sort of thing, Jon finds.
“America, if possible. Wonderful place. Almost absolute anarchy there. You can buy a gun in a grocery store. Does wonders to help the life expectancy in these sorts of things.” He nods, again, not because he thinks it adds anything to the situation, but rather because he has no idea what to do with his extremities in general. With a pained wince, he swings his legs from the bed and lets them dangle over the edge. “Right then. I’ll be off.”
“I--are you leaving?” asks Tim, incredulous. He half-turns to face him.
Jon frowns. “Was there something else?”
“Something just tried to eat my brother!” The bed rocks beneath them as Tim leans forward, gesturing wildly toward the wall above his headboard. “A-- magic door spat you both out on my bed, which, last time I checked, super fucking wasn’t Covent Garden.”
“Yes, well, that’s rather passed,” says Jon, a bit frustrated. “Not much to be done now. Be careful, trust your instincts, don’t go near any taxidermists or wax museums. Invest in a weapon. It’s remarkably easy to buy an axe in Central London. Hopefully Grimaldi will forget you were there, or I’ll have sufficiently annoyed him to the point where he doesn’t care anymore. I’ll be dealing with them soon.”
The man at the counter deflates when he sees them. Jon winces.
His name is Bertram Adams, which Jon knows because he has an eldritch being of invasive knowledge inside his head, and also because Bertram Adams had come to the Institute once to give a Statement. It had, unfortunately, been a statement regarding a repeat customer to his workplace, who never blinked and occasionally brought in sobbing, disheveled people who looked like they had toured through hell and been forced to have a prolonged discussion with the devil, and also he looked like he had never slept a day in his life, which was a detail Jon felt he could have left out.
Bertram Adams had stepped into the Archives, taken one look at Jon, and immediately burst into tears.
Silently, Jon places a five pound note on the counter.
Bertram makes no move to take it. “I can’t let you in without shoes.”
Jon slides the five pound note marginally closer.
“Please stop coming here.”
Jon slides the five pound note closer.
“Well, no, but my, uh, predecessor had a bit of a philosophy about this,” says Jon. “It can’t be interested in you if it’s too busy exploding.”
Danny leans forward, his heart kicking up a notch in his chest. “We’re going to blow them up?”
Jon grimaces. “I had a bit of a falling out with my explosives guy. We’ll have to workshop it a bit. But that’s the idea.”
Danny will die if this man does not agree to be his friend.
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AHHHHH
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