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It is December 31st, 1813, and Jonathan Sims is waiting for a change.
Three months he has spent trying to figure out life in Regency period England as someone with limited historical knowledge that he could no longer use eldritch Google to bolster, or even normal Google for that matter which would have sufficed all things considered. Three months and he is no closer to his goal.
He doesn’t really have that much of a goal, except he is reasonably sure it involves finding Jonah Magnus and punching him in the face… Or somehow stopping the formation of The Magnus Institute, whichever comes first honestly.
It is one thing waking up in 1813 when the last thing you know it was 2019 (maybe?), it’s another thing to wake up with every single memory you’ve had including the way the world will end, knowing the person at fault is alive and hasn’t fallen yet and not being able to find him.
Now, it’s not that Jon has no idea. In fact, he’s reasonably certain that the Magnus family has a home in London, so at least he’s in the right general location, but the problem is everything else. How does a random brown man with no money who appeared in London one day after being stabbed by his boyfriend gain anywhere close to enough social standing to rub elbows with high-standing gentlemen? Well, three months ago, Jon decided to trade in the few pound coins he had in his jean pockets, because there was enough vague copper in there to be worth something, buy a decent -period appropriate- outfit and start performing music. Because that made sense. Because aristocrats loved their private concerts, Georgie told him that at one point.
Several months later, he sits in a venue known as the Argyll Rooms, trying not to look like he just spent his entire set panicking and attempting to remember every single song he’s ever learned on piano. It wasn’t his worst performance, all things considered, at least this time he didn’t lapse into a strange piano rendition of ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’. The ladies and gentlemen of Regent Street did not enjoy that, tad too modern. Yes, time travel is a bizarre old thing, but Jon hopes there’s not going to be enough surviving records of a strange piano player that stick around until the songs he’s been playing have been written. He’s not about to play his own songs for the general public, he’s certain retellings of Greek myths in space are not going to get him enormously far, where-as sweet little love songs and clever wordplay will, and to that he thanks desperately the songwriters of the 20th-21st centuries, stuck as he is in the 19th.
He sighs and picks up his stupid goose feather quill, why they hadn’t bothered to invent pens earlier is really beginning to grate on him. Quills are scratchy and Jon, being left-handed and clumsy, rather commonly gets ink all over his shirt. It’s annoying, but it’s necessary, especially now as he tries to work out his setlist. Notably how much plagiarism he could possibly get away with this time. The trouble with a weekly spot at the Argyll Rooms is that Jon has to continually provide new material, Jon does not have that new material, but he does have a pretty good memory, and knows enough songs vaguely on the piano that he can sort of make the rest up. It’s not fun, none of this is fun, in fact it screams of some awful nightmare he would have had during his performing days in university but that’s where he’s ended up and he’s adopted a rather laissez-faire attitude in the past three months. Something changes when you get stabbed to death, he supposes, then find yourself over two-hundred years in the past with no sign of the one person that’s made the last three years even remotely bearable. You sort of just accept the reality you live in. And start ripping people off because copyright laws for music haven’t technically been invented yet, he’s got around fifteen years before he needs to worry too hard about it.
Except he hasn’t really, he’s got four years until Jonah Magnus founds The Institute, that’s what he should be worrying about.
Except he can’t really, because he has another set to finish working out and more songs to luck his way through and sanitise at least a little bit so Regency gentlemen can half-listen to the lyrics without losing their minds.
Jon smears the ink of his sentence and groans to himself. Maybe this is all a dream, maybe he’s trapped in his own Fear domain, though God knows what this one would be. Probably Beholding, it’s always bloody Beholding. Speaking of, there’s eyes on him.
He didn’t wake up in 1813 with any of his powers, that would have been too easy, the only reason he can tell is because this gentleman has never known subtlety in his entire life. The man dresses in a way even Jon knows is gaudy and out of fashion and has a tendency to approach people like a freight train. Stephen Slade, not technically the owner, barely even a Director, but the man that runs the Argyll Rooms and the one that picked him up from the side of the road and informed him that “busking” was not a thing, and street performers could not do so without a licence. He’s close to what Jon might consider a friend, possibly closer to a manager if he had the ego to equate himself to an actual rockstar, although he hopes their relationship is more Brian Epstein and The Beatles than Elvis and the Colonel.
“Mr Slade, how may I help you?” He says, turning away from the ink-drenched piece of paper in front of him, five possible songs rapidly drying and one illegible that Jon may or may not forget what it had been within the next ten minutes.
“Ah Mr Sims, have I caught you before or after your performance?” Slade says, one hand holding a letter and eyes gleaming with excitement, the excitement worries him.
“After. What has gotten you so excited dear fellow?”
Now Jon will never claim to be an expert on 1800s Britain, but he’s been told enough times in the modern era that he has an archaic way of speaking, he hasn’t found it all that hard to blend in, at least in a lexical sense.
“Well.” Slade pushes out a chair at the same table as him and sits down, placing the letter between them. “Have you any commitments this evening?”
Jon shakes his head. He’s not fond of New Years celebrations in his own time and isn’t certain the Regency period had many of the traditions he’s accustomed to. Nonetheless, he’s certain aristocrats will use it as an excuse for a party and if he can up his social standing through a performance tonight, there’s no sense in telling Slade he’s busy. What would he do anyway? Go down the pub like a dozen other lonely men and hope to God he was right about Mordechai Lukas being around the same age as Jonah and the Lonely not being out for blood just yet.
“Fantastic!” Slade practically glows. “I have a proposition for you. A rather flush-in-the-pockets associate of mine has contacted me asking for my recommendation of a performer to be sent to his celebrations to-night, I was wondering if perhaps you would be willing?”
Jon nods. “More than willing sir. Pray tell, would I have heard of this man?”
Please God don’t let it be a member of the royal family. He’s not sure his heart could handle that.
“Perhaps.” The other man leans back, crossing his arms enigmatically. “Does the name Magnus mean anything to you?”
Carefully, Jon takes a breath and tries not to break the quill. Every part of him is desperately screaming that yes, the name Magnus in fact means everything to him and this is exactly what he’s looking for, but he can’t express this. In his cover as a man decidedly not from England (“Oh you’re so well-spoken despite… Well, your travels as it were.” God.), he would not know the name Magnus. So, against every instinct in his body, he shakes his head.
“Well, Lord Magnus is a high-standing member of society, he usually resides with his family in an ancestral home in Edinburgh, but has recently purchased an exceptional residency in London where they are spending the holidays. As such, he intends to throw a New Years celebration whereupon he will need…” Slade pauses, grinning at Jon.
“Musical entertainment?” He guesses.
“Exactly Mr Sims! As an up-and-coming performer with a wide variety of melodies, you would be perfect.”
Jon pauses and thinks. Yes, this is exactly the opportunity he’s looking for, but he has to show at least some grace, so he pantomimes weighing the pros and cons and mentally tries to remember whether Jonah was Lord Magnus or if that was his father. How old even is Jonah in 1813? He can’t be more than 20, Jon reasons, any older than that and he would have been expected to have some means of career -well, he’s rich, it would be more of a hobby- and The Institute does not exist yet. Pays to have been vaguely into steampunk in his own early twenties.
“How much would Lord Magnus be offering?” He asks, by way of showing interest, what is comparably little to Jon goes a long way in 1813.
“I am unsure of the exact sum, Mr Sims, but I am certain you will not be disappointed.” Slade taps the papers he’s holding against the table and Jon notices the name written neatly at the end of the letter.
Lord Henry Magnus, so Jonah is the son then. Excellent.
“What sort of a performance is he looking for?” Jon continues, frowning at his setlist. He may need to reconsider anything with a more… scandalous tone. One day he will get to play Adam Ant, if only to remember the one Horrible Histories sketch version of it and perform it to remind his audience of Dick Turpin. Hah.
“Well…” Slade unfolds his letter again. “It would seem he requires something ‘easy on the ear’ during dinner and more one of your classic performances during the lead up to midnight.”
“Auld Lang Syne to see in the New Year?” Jon asks, a hint of a smile on his face. He’ll get to do his own Jools Holland performance at this rate.
“Ah certainly!” Slade chortles. “Being a Scotsman, I’m sure that would bring Lord Magnus some New Years cheer!”
“Hogmanay I do believe they call it up there.” Jon mumbles, mostly to himself.
“Well, you are more well-travelled than me, Mr Sims, I’m sure you’re correct.” He refolds the letter and places it in his coat pocket. “I shall send someone to inform Lord Magnus of your arrival, shall I?”
“Oh, yes. Most certainly.”
Slade grins at him before rising from his chair and turning towards the exit.
“You shan’t regret this, Mr Sims.”
“No Mr Slade, I don’t believe I will.”
--
Someone comes to collect him not long after Slade disappears, a scrawny looking fellow, clearly a servant and clearly afraid to even open his mouth around anyone with more expensive shoes than his paycheck. Jon doesn’t blame him, plenty of times over the last three months has seen him unable to open his mouth around gentlemen of much higher standing, although more often than not he’s holding his tongue to avoid saying something no doubt offensive to such men, but no doubt undeniably true. Many times he has been looked at with a certain sort of derisive snobbery, an up turn of the nose and a sniff that means Jon can garner a pretty good guess as to how they made their fortune. It has only been six years since they abolished slavery, after all.
Needless to say, it is silent inside of the coach. The young servant boy refuses to make eye contact, staring at the floor tipping to and fro with the motion of the horses, the driver in the front is silent too. Perhaps it is Jon’s duty to make conversation as the higher standing gentleman, but quite frankly he is distracted. Jon watches out of what his mind wants to call a window but is in fact a gap in the door as Regent Street turns into Mayfair, and he’s not entirely surprised that even in the 21st century, this place is still considered a home only for the ostentatiously wealthy. Masking a chuckle, he reminds himself that this is highest billing property on a Monopoly board, of course the Magnus family has a residency here. It’s not even their only house, which is mind-boggling to Jon, having spent the last few months in what is essentially a single room in a house with several other budding musicians. At least he’s surrounded by creativity, he could do with some of that.
Speaking of, he glances down at his set-list and tries to panic too badly. He’s revised a couple of old classics, ones which got a nice response from his usual crowd, thrown a few Glenn Miller tracks he can loosely approximate a piano cover of in for dinner and guesses that collectively these wealthy patrons won’t mind too much if he slightly butchers Mozart. It’s a no-brainer to him that he’d rather struggle through Eine Kleine Nachtmusik than launch into a Beethoven tune that he knows better. At least Mozart is dead. In terms of after dinner, Jon has had to look wider into his repertoire and do a little bit more mental acrobatics. A bit of ‘80s pop won’t cost him too much, a nice, easy ‘50s tune is always a hit and he will play ABBA if he goddamn wants to. How would they know?
Jon deflates and returns to staring out of the window at the streets. This is a journey that should take less than fifteen minutes in modern Britain, yet with the amount of people consistently slowing down the coach, he might as well have walked, although he’s jolly glad he didn’t attempt to raise the matter with the servant boy. Jon probably couldn’t have found the residency at the best of times, but this Winter seems especially harsh and foggy. More often than not, he has gone out in the fog only to take several wrong turns and end up right back at the Argyll Rooms instead of anywhere near his own.
He used to like the fog. He doesn’t anymore.
As the coach rumbles to a halt, Jon gathers his overcoat around himself. Performers’ garb is thin, and the wool coat doesn’t do much to help his absolutely freezing calves, but it is what it is and what it is is cold. The servant boy nods and opens the coach door for him and Jon hops out onto the uneven paving stones below, his shoes making a dainty little tap. He just hopes there’s no puddles between here and the front door to risk making the bows on them damp, he paid good money for a little bit of glamour.
This version of Mayfair is a lot less crowded than he remembers, a decent space between properties instead of having them packed wall to wall and the streets are wider, possibly for the coaches to have a better chance of passing each other; Jon certainly notices that every house seems to have a stable. Not for the first time, he feels incredibly out of his depth as the servant boy leads him to the front door, intimidating pillars cradling a hefty panel of what might be oak. There’s steps up as well, in case you weren’t already certain that whoever lives there is certainly above you.
“Watch your step sir.” The servant boy says, the first words he’s uttered since asking if Jon was, in fact, Jonathan Sims.
“Thank you.” He responds, courteously, and takes his words on board.
The steps are indeed slightly icy and Jon is internally grateful that canes are all the range within fashion during this period and that he bought one because his bad leg protests immediately that he dares put pressure on it on a slippery surface. Shock, horror, thank you Jane Prentiss for a lifelong injury. Needless to say, he rather unceremoniously hauls himself up the steps and into the -much warmer- foyer.
“I shall fetch the Lord, Mr Sims.” The boy states, scuttling off into the rest of the house and leaving Jon alone in the room.
It’s… nice. Of course it’s nice. A large entrance hall with an impressive staircase winding up into the rest of the house, one door in front of him, two doors either side, a fairly standard lay-out. Not even the decorations scream Magnus, although Jon isn’t really certain what that entails at this point in time. Directly opposite him, framed either side by a split staircase, is a family portrait and that takes his attention.
He squints slightly through his completely non-prescription spectacles -tiny and round as of the fashion, functionally subpar- and identifies Jonah instantly. He stands, behind his father who is seated, with the exact same haircut that he put poor Elias Bouchard’s body through, clipped and parted on one side with the vague hint of mutton chops. He has no moustache yet, though he can’t be very old in the portrait given his youthful manner of dress and strange positioning. It’s the eyes though that render him instantly recognisable, the same ones that followed Jon all around The Institute, whether they were implanted in his employer or simply in the many very similar portraits placed strategically around the place. However, there is no coldness in those eyes yet, no sense of being watched as Jon lingers in the foyer, there is little doubt in his mind that Jonah Magnus is not quite Jonah Magnus yet.
He has sisters. Three of them, one with her father’s red hair, two with their mother’s dark brown that they share with Jonah. Fascinating, Jon always thought Jonah would be an only child, perhaps because of his sheer, personable audacity. He supposes the next best thing is being the only male heir, Jon has no sympathy for him.
Footsteps sound and the other man in the portrait makes an appearance through one of the off-shooting doors, Jon turns and momentarily panics. Does he bow? Yes, this man is a Lord, they bow in Pride and Prejudice… he thinks. Fuck it.
Jon bows and then looks up to meet the slightly amused gaze of Lord Magnus. He has the same eyes as his son, though a less piercing grey, and flaming red hair befitting of a scotsman. A fine moustache frames a slightly quirked up lip, though he has no beard, instead the awful, godforsaken mutton-chops of the period. He is dressed well, though not too gaudily, and it is clear he will change before dinner.
“Mister Jonathan Sims, I presume?” Lord Magnus asks, the Scottish accent surprisingly clear in his voice.
“Yes my Lord.” Jon responds. He hopes to a God that doesn’t exist that this is the right thing to say.
Distantly, he recalls it is probably customary to shake hands, and that it is probably the right hand he needs to shake with, so he takes off his hat with his left and raises his right… And drops his cane. Jon winces as it clatters to the floor, but persists with the handshake. Lord Magnus simply chuckles and shakes his hand.
“You may want to pick that up.”
“Yes, my apologies. I rather forgot I had it.” Jon mumbles, internally cringing as he bends to retrieve it.
Lord Magnus gestures towards a stand at the door. “Please put it in there with the others.”
“Thank you.”
Jon does as he’s asked, then wonders once again if this is a specially designed nightmare just for him. There is nothing he hates more than small talk and false pleasantries, actually there is -sentences with double meanings, and the Regency period is full of the bloody things. He does, however, notice a rather nice cane with a duck handle and smile to himself.
It’s the kind of thing Martin would have liked.
His smile fades.
“Now, forgive me if I do not feel the need to acquaintance you with the entirety of my residence, but do follow me to the dining room where you will be performing tonight.” Lord Magnus says, taking the door on the right side of the room.
Jon follows suit. “I presume you have a piano, Lord Magnus?”
“Why of course.” He chuckles. “There would be no other reason to invite a pianist.”
He hopes the laugh he gives isn’t as ingenuine as he feels. “Naturally.”
Lord Magnus leads him down a corridor, lined with pieces of art that Jon is unfamiliar with, but likely cost a fortune, then through an ornate door frame into a dining room that he can only describe as… comfortable. A long, dark wood table sits in the centre, a roaring fire filling the room with warm light. The piano stands in the corner, a proper grand with wonderfully carved ivory keys, Jon will even be blessed with a slight platform stage and a table upon which to place a glass of water. The room is large, the table suggesting there will be more people attending than simply the Magnus family, but it otherwise does not look like an awful place to spend an evening.
The Lord is boasting about how this room is not as big as their one in Scotland, but should do nicely for the festivities planned, and Jon simply hums along, taking in the fine, dark red curtains and the blossoming, seasonal centerpieces. Yes, a fine place to spend the evening. The fire hisses and pops and Jon is grateful for the heat, striding over to warm his hands once the conversation allows it. As he does so, the servant’s door next to him opens, shocking him and making him jump far more than is socially respectable. A gentleman must not show any extremes of emotion, ugh.
A young man, clearly not a servant, pokes his head out and is evidently equally startled. He is also incredibly dishevelled.
“Father!” He states, tone definitely more surprised than excited to see the Lord.
“Jonah.” Lord Magnus faces Jon. “Please forgive my son, he has a tendency to arrive in a room when he is least wanted. Jonah Magnus, Jonathan Sims, the musician for to-night.”
Jonah blinks, then awkwardly extends his hands. “Charmed.”
Jon shakes it, nodding politely. “Wonderful to meet you.”
He’s never been a great liar, but the statement comes out reasonably sincere for a musician that just watched the heir of the family that hired him crawl out of the servant’s passageways. Jonah looks as he did in his portrait, he can't be more than 20 years old, and certainly looks like he's been doing something he shouldn't have. It’s the eyes he desperately wants not to focus on, but they are such a light grey that he can’t help but do so, even if it seems strange seeing them in the sockets of a different man entirely. A part of Jon really wants to know what exactly the tormentor of his last chronological three-or-four years was doing in those passages, but even he knows that this is not appropriate social etiquette for him. His father, however.
“What on Earth possessed you to give us such a fright, dear boy?” Lord Magnus tries for a jovial tone, but it is clear the passive aggression is lacing his sentence.
“Er. Well.” Jonah begins, awkwardly glancing towards Jon. “Mordechai requested an extra blanket, being that it is so cold, and rather than trouble a servant for it, I simply made to retrieve it myself.”
Jon’s eyes widen slightly. Mordechai? As in Mordechai Lukas? Truly, he has struck gold, though he has yet to decide whether this is a good thing or a bad thing. Hang on.
“Where’s the blanket?” He asks, before his brain catches up. As soon as the last syllable escapes, he clamps his jaw shut and stares at the floor. Not appropriate, not for your standing.
“Oh, I couldn’t find one in the end and got lost in the passageways.” Jonah says, fairly smoothly, all things considered, and without the venom he was expecting.
And Jon has heard this man lie enough times to know that’s exactly what didn’t happen. And Jon remembers Mordechai and Jonah were on… good terms. Somehow, his father believes him.
“Hmph, fair enough. It is a new property after all. Run along now.”
“Yes sir.” Jonah tips his head at both Jon and his father before promptly exiting the conversation. If he’s not mistaken, Jon can hear the man sigh in relief as he taps his way out of the room.
“I apologise for him.” Lord Magnus tuts. “He’s a rather… wayward boy.”
“Right.” Jon mumbles. “I see.”
Part of him wonders if that is Regency slang for something else. He does not voice his confusion, it is not befitting of his station to ask such questions of a gentleman. He can, however, guess.
“You will spend most of the evening in here, Mr Sims, perhaps you may practice or simply enjoy some of the books on the shelves. A servant shall fetch you for your dinner, then you will play for ours. Is that a suitable arrangement?” Lord Magnus smiles, but Jon gets the distinct impression that he cannot say no even if he wanted to.
“Delightful, Lord Magnus.” He settles down at the piano stall, producing his papers from his jacket. “Are you certain my playing would not disturb you and your guests?”
“Ah, you are most considerate. No, the drawing room is far from here and most of us are settled there. My children may be about, as may the Lukas children, but they will likely be entertaining themselves.”
“I see.” Jon opens the piano. “Shall I be playing only for the Lukases and the Magnuses or are there more?”
“Just our two families.” His face grows serious. “It is our intent that this dinner opens opportunities for us.”
“Business or personal?” Jon asks, then worries he’s made a misstep. Is that appropriate to ask? God, he really has no idea.
Thankfully, Lord Magnus simply smiles impassively. “Both, should either opportunity arise. Now, forgive me, but I have to go back to my guests.”
“I understand.” Jon nods. “Thank you for both your hospitality and trust.”
It really was trust, he’s not entirely sure why he’s being left alone. If he were a lesser man, a genuine musician of the times, he would be half-tempted to start taking any easily concealable artefacts and leg it. However, reason number one: he is not that uncouth, his grandmother brought him up properly rather than dragged him, and reason number two: he does not want to risk it with a Magnus’ belongings. He cannot be certain they aren’t cursed.
“You seem a smart enough fellow Mr Sims, you understand the importance of this opportunity, a man like you would not risk it.” And he pauses, regarding Jon with a suddenly quite piercing gaze. “Am I wrong?”
“No.” Jon swallows, suddenly being reminded of disciplinary meetings and even times in the headmasters office at school. Like father like son, he supposes. “You are correct. I would not dare abuse your cordiality.”
“Excellent.” As sudden as it appeared, the ice in his eyes is gone, replaced by a pleased almost warmth. “Take care, I shall see you this evening.”
“I hope not to disappoint. Good day.”
As Lord Magnus retreats and Jon turns back to his papers and the beautiful piano, the nerves return. He really hopes he doesn’t crash and burn, there is more at stake here than just his reputation as a musician.
--
Jon runs through his set about five times before he gets solidly and indisputably bored. If he had to be honest, he would say there isn’t much he misses about modern life, he tires of constant advertising and has never been a fan of overhead electric lights, however he does miss three things most of all. First and foremost will always be Martin, that’s a given, there’s something about waking up in the morning, turning to his left and seeing nobody beside him that gives Jon an awful little pang in his chest… and also his stomach, where the latest scar in a long line of poor decisions rests angry and red. Secondly, indoor plumbing, the less said about that the better. Third and finally, the internet. God Jon is so bored.
Don’t get him wrong, he likes books, but he’s read so many. Popular authors don’t tend to thrill him, academic texts tend to sound the same after you’ve read a few in one go and Jon does not understand any language other than English now that his good pal Beholding has left him high and dry. And goddamnit, he misses Wikipedia, misses Youtube, if nothing else he misses Spotify, at least he could play music there that he didn’t have to make himself! Therefore, once he finishes his run through, reasonably confident that he’s not going to cock it all up in a couple of hours, Jon resigns himself to sorting through Lord Magnus’ dining room books in order to entertain himself. He gets up from the piano seat, checks his pocket watch, sighs and starts analysing the collection.
It is mostly encyclopaedias and atlases. Maybe it’s an innate Magnus family trait to be unendingly dull. Regardless, he plucks one out of the shelves and sits back on the piano stool, it’s not comfortable but he has not been allowed free reign of the house, so it will have to do. All things considered, the volume Jon has managed to pick out is actually quite interesting, it succeeds in drawing him in and he only winces a little bit at the patently false medical information and rampant empiricism, he didn’t expect anything less. He is decently absorbed and barely notices the dining room door opening, nor the footsteps and swishing of skirts. It’s only when a hissed argument breaks out that he briefly looks up from his book and pales.
A lady has entered the room, you are meant to rise from your seat when a lady enters the room.
As important as this fact is, however, Jon is immediately soothed by the fact that this lady would not have noticed whether he rose or not, given that she is currently rather red in the face, almost matching her hair, and in a rather confrontational conversation with Jonah Magnus. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices an ornate hairstyle dressed with feathers and a light blue gown, seemingly the ladies have changed for dinner now, not that this lady is behaving in the most ladylike of manners. Now, at his heart, Jon is incredibly nosy, it’s why he took to the Beholding the way he did, so, he holds himself still, stares unseeing at the book in front of him, and eavesdrops.
“I can’t do it, I simply cannot do it! I emphatically and loudly refuse to sit through yet another dinner with that man!” The woman opens, throwing herself down into one of the dining room chairs with a dramatic groan. It seems to run in the family.
“Mim, come on now-” Jonah tries, he sounds genuinely quite stressed, appealing to his sister half-kneeling on the floor. “-I know the Lukas men can be… hard to get to know-”
“No Jonah! No buts! I’m sick to death of bloody Oswald Lukas telling me all about his- his assets!” The girl blows a loose piece of her hair out of her face and crosses her arms petulantly.
“I- well-”
She rolls her eyes. “You don’t like Oswald either!”
“I-” Jonah sighs. “You’re right, I can’t stand the man. At least Mordechai has something interesting to talk about other than his ‘conquests in the Mediterranean’, like that means anything anymore.”
Jon almost laughs, thankfully it’s masked by the girl’s groan.
“Don’t be mawkish Jonah, you and I both know Mordechai can barely hold a conversation!”
“Miriam, that’s hardly his fault.” Jonah scoffs. “Look at what raised him. Naval Captain Joseph Lukas.”
Miriam, as Jon realises her name is, laughs. “Well at least you’re not the one expected to marry into it.”
“Somehow, just somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen.” Jonah leans on the table. “What about that other one, the one we’ve never spent any time with and came out of ruddy nowhere?”
For a moment, she pauses. “Oh the bacon-faced one?”
“Miram! Don’t be so rude!”
“He is!” She chuffs. “And quite frankly Jonah, you would have better luck there than I would. You’re dicked in the nob if you think that man is anything other than a molly!”
To Jon, sitting in the corner at the piano, the entirety of the last sentence Miriam uttered felt like a genuine slap to the face. He clamps his jaw shut, trying desperately not to behave like a twelve-year-old boy and laugh at the phrase ‘dicked in the nob’. He has given up all pretence of reading his book and is overjoyed that the two Magnus siblings are so engrossed in their own conversation, Jon is certain by now that he’s the colour of the curtains.
Jonah sighs. “Well, it isn’t likely that you are incorrect. Was it the cane?”
“The cane? The little duck cane? The little cane with the little duck on top?” Miriam rolls her eyes. “Yes Jonah, it was the duck cane!”
“Alright, you do not have to take such an unladylike tone with me.” He grumbles. “What is it about him then?”
“Overdressed, outdatedly so.” Miriam sniffs. “And he spoke fondly of Lord Byron.”
“For his poetry, sister.” Jonah shakes his head. “And his manner of dress could simply be that he is not used to having the disposable income of a gentleman yet. Mordechai said he simply appeared on the grounds of their estate three months ago.”
If Jon wasn’t too busy trying to go unnoticed, he might have given that sentence more than a cursory raise of the eyebrow. As such, he cannot afford to react, but mentally files that away in a distant place known as ‘Hope’.
“Did he claim relations?”
“Initially no. I think it was assumed so later, being that he so resembles Mordechai.” He chuckles. “Except with significantly weaker eyes and more padding around the mid-regions.”
“See!” Miriam points at him. “If he had no disposable income, why would he have clearly been able to eat that well?”
With an air of calm condescension, Jonah lowers her outstretched hand and only now glances into the rest of the room. To his credit, his eyes only briefly widen in fear once noticing Jon, and he makes a very valiant attempt to look like he has not been listening in the slightest, pointedly turning a page in his book.
“Well Miriam.” Jonah sounds rattled, despite his careful schooling of his expression. “I do not think it is our place to judge such a family of good standing.”
Miriam snorts. “Good standing my arse. Make money off of selling sugar in the sun all day, I think they deserve all they-”
She looks up, following Jonah’s eyes… and very promptly stops talking.
“Hello.” She says, weakly.
Jon makes a good show of startling and looking up at the two.
“Oh, erm, hello.” Then slams his book shut, getting to his feet, and dips his head. “My Lady.”
“Er.” Jonah scrambles for a way to salvage this. “Mister… Mister… Bugger, what was your name again?”
Again, Jon tries really hard not to laugh at the poor boy. “Jonathan Sims, sir.”
“Of course.” The man looks nervous, there’s some sort of sick karma to that and Jon tries not to smirk. “Mister Jonathan Sims, my sister, Lady Miriam Magnus. This is the piano player for the evening. I forgot Father placed him in here.”
“Quite alright, I didn’t hear a word.” He says. “I was too engrossed in… Rees’s Cyclopædia.”
Jonah chuckles nervously. “Yes, a fascinating volume.”
His sister marches up to the raised platform, one eyebrow raised. “If you breathe a word of what was uttered here to my Father I will make sure he does not pay you a penny, understood?”
Jon takes a deep breath. “I assure you, my Lady, I was never intending to. Like I said, the conversation seemed of a personal nature and it is not within my habits to repeat such information.”
Seemingly satisfied, Miriam nods. “Come Jonah, let us continue this conversation somewhere more private.”
She swishes out of the room in a flurry of blue skirts and white lace, expecting Jonah to follow.
“Oh, do we have to?” He mumbles, before trailing dutifully behind her.
Well, Jon supposes it pays to be a fly on the wall. What a bewildering conversation that was.
He has little time to dwell on it, no time to even entertain thoughts of who this mysterious man who turned up three months ago could possibly be, although he is far too pessimistic to even begin to get his hopes up that this poetry-liking, clearly gay, Lukas lookalike is… well his poetry-liking, clearly gay, Lukas lookalike. Yes, he barely has any time to even mentally verbalise Martin’s name before a servant collects him for his dinner and the nerves return tenfold.
Not long now.
--
It’s decided. Martin hates this.
This, of course, refers to his entire life of the last three months. All things considered, he’s remarkably well put together for a man who stabbed his boyfriend then turned up in the back garden of a group of people he actively despises and, he cannot stress this enough, in the year 1813. He thought he would have cried more by now.
Martin knows nothing, he must repeat, nothing about Regency England. For a good few days, until Mordechai said very eloquently “Who the bloody hell is Queen Victoria”, Martin thought he was in the wrong era. He’s fairly certain most of the Lukas family think he is half insane, but somehow he managed to blag hard enough that they think he’s a long lost cousin that may have spent too long at sea, and subsequently he’s been dragged along to a high society dinner with, and here’s the kicker, Jonah Magnus.
Except, of course, Jonah Magnus isn’t an evil eye weirdo yet, in fact he was the only one willing to talk to Martin about Lord Byron before he fled the room after his rather confrontational sister. The Magnus Institute doesn’t even exist yet, and honestly Martin’s major concern right now is that Joseph Lukas seems intent on marrying at least one member of his family off to the Magnuses. And, dear God, Martin does not want it to be him.
Fancy dinners are not his thing, even in the modern day he’s likely to freeze up if he has to dress in a suit and tie and exchange airs and graces with the upper class, but this is a new social trainwreck entirely. He perches in a drawing room where the rugs probably cost about twice his yearly paycheck, and he’s trying really hard not to pull a face as Oswald goes on a fifteenth rant about the sugar trade and how the new regulations are really bad for him as a business owner. Because slavery was profitable, you see. God.
Quite frankly, Martin wants to tell him to shove it up his arse, but he’s decided to take a leaf out of Mordechai’s book and remain silent. Now, Mordechai Lukas is a very strange one. Honestly, Martin can understand why he eventually falls to the lonely, can even hazard a guess as to why he started his little dynasty of all things, he’s a product of this absolutely terrifying society where if you say one thing wrong you’re literally doomed and Joseph Lukas is a terrible, terrible father. Like Martin, Mordechai doesn’t understand any of these strange Regency rules, however, unlike Martin, he was born into it. It’s an odd thing to feel any amount of sympathy for a Lukas, and he is trying very hard not to, but it’s genuinely difficult when the man is floundering worse than Martin. Martin who, as he cannot stress this enough, is from over two hundred years in the future.
The entire room chuckles as Joseph makes some joke, no doubt in poor taste, and Martin tentatively titters along despite not paying any attention to it. It’s all getting rather tedious, although he thinks it would probably be incredibly rude to ask if they could hurry up on dinner. 5 pm seems too early to him anyway. It’s New Years’ Eve as well, so he can’t even get away with retiring early. This is hell, this is his fear domain.
The door opens and Jonah Magnus returns with his sister in tow. Martin remembers he has to stand when a lady enters the room so he gets to his feet… And Mordechai is completely unaware.
Surreptitiously, Martin smacks him on the shoulder, the boy finally looking up and acknowledging the situation and rising to his feet as he’s supposed to do. Jonah smiles at him affectionately but his sister positively glours. Martin gets the impression that she’d rather be anywhere else, he thinks all three of the Magnus girls do, even Jonah, to an extent. The eldest, Mary, is already betrothed to Frederick… Frederick something not important, though he’s fairly certain the glare she keeps giving her husband to be has no affection in it, in fact he genuinely thinks Mary is plotting Fredrick’s murder. Eloise, the middle sister, has spent most of the afternoon staring at her shoes, only looking up once when Mordechai made the brave decision to open his mouth and mention his favourite horse. And Miriam… Well, Miriam gave Oswald the politest smile she could as he spoke about his incredibly dubious business practices, then grabbed her brother by the non-eye-shaped cufflinks and marched him off elsewhere.
“Apologies for my earlier vacation.” Miriam says, the same impassive smile on her face as she gives a little curtsy. “I had a funny turn.”
“Quite alright, my dear.” Oswald says, Martin wants to slap him. Instead, he takes a deep breath and fiddles with his own cufflinks. God, why did they make clothing this uncomfortable, it’s like all people of the past were masochists.
“I put it to you that you were simply hungry, Mim.” Jonah chuckles, taking a seat nearest to Mordechai and letting the conversation restart.
If Martin had to guess, he’d say Jonah was hating this almost as much as he was. There is no bright spark of… well probably sadistic glee in his grey eyes and even back in modern times, he tended to carry a conversation. Here, he lets his father do so and genuinely seems entirely bored of it all. And quite frankly, as little as Martin wants to admit it, he understands.
Breaking news, worst people you know actually have a point.
Martin half-laughs at his own mental joke before smothering it with a sip of his drink. He doesn’t know what it is, he’s afraid to ask and he’s genuinely worried it might be poisoned, but, at this point, maybe death is preferable.
Hey, maybe he’d get to see Jon again.
This isn’t really a fantastic place to analyse how guilty he feels, or all his other mixed emotions about the situation. He did what he had to do, he knows Jon understands or… understood, he just wishes he’d had some sense of closure, something beyond ‘where you go, I go’. Clearly, that was a promise that the universe would not let them keep. God forbid something go right for them for a change. As such, he’s spent much of the last three months… moping as Daisy would say. Maybe the poison really wouldn’t be that bad.
Thankfully, his rather morbid train of thought gets interrupted. Of course, there’s conversation around him, but it’s been a while since he’s been actively engaged, however, Jonah Magnus, for some reason, has decided to talk to him.
“So, Mister Blackwood?”
Honestly, Martin is half-stunned that he even remembers his name. It takes him far too long to respond.
“Yes Mister Magnus?”
“Are there any other poets that catch your fancy?” He asks, a touch of genuine curiosity to his voice.
Right, ok, poets. Martin can do poets. His all time favourite poet is genuinely John Keats, but it’s because of that that he knows Keats is about seventeen right now and hasn’t written anything remotely publishable. Coleridge is about, but Martin has never liked his work and Blake is a little too lowbrow he seems to remember. Ok, who else. Robert Burns? He knows nothing about Robert Burns and these people are Scottish. Uh… Wordsworth? Yes! Wordsworth!
“I consider the works of William Wordsworth to be to my taste.” Martin says, choosing his words carefully. He refuses to make another butterfly-effect causing mistake like teaching Mordechai what ‘cool’ meant.
“Ah yes, Wordsworth!” Jonah lights up. “Do you have a favourite? I’m partial to Tintern Abbey myself.”
“An excellent choice, he has such a way with descriptions of the wonders of nature. At the moment, I think my favourite would be Intimations of Immortality, even though I think he’s-”
Going through a midlife crisis is what Martin wants to say, but that’s absolutely not something Jonah Magnus of 1813 is going to understand.
“He’s…?” He prompts.
“Oh, sorry, he’s creating rather melancholy works as of late.”
Jonah hums. “I must admit he carries a pensive tone throughout, but doesn’t Intimations of Immortality end on a hopeful note? Although, I have to say I haven’t read it many a time.”
Mordechai, almost inaudibly, groans. As if he does not want to sit through a conversation like this with Jonah for the upteenth time.
“It is rather long.” Martin mumbles, then decides that Jonah asked, so he’s going to get the whole rant. “And yes, you would be quite right, Intimations of Immortality operates under a rather interesting structure. The first four stanzas refer to Wordsworth’s current morbid fascinations of death and the loss of his youth, for he is not the young man he used to be. The next four stanzas reflect upon age and the way, as we grow, that we lose sights of the joy in life and the nature around us. As you quite rightly suggested, the final three stanzas end on a more hopeful note, that the memory of the sublime persists into later adulthood and that same joy can be found again. It refers most prudently to one of the ideas present in another Wordsworth poem; ‘My Heart Leaps Up’, he expresses that ‘the child is father to the man’, an observation meaning that we can learn an awful lot from a child’s joyful perception of the world-”
Martin pauses. Everyone is looking at him.
“Erm, well, that is to say-”
“That is an insightful analysis, Mister Blackwood.” Jonah sounds… Jonah sounds almost impressed. “I didn’t take you for a man with such strong ideas about poetry.”
“I, erm, I dabble myself from time to time.” Martin mumbles, begging the conversation to restart. “I c-could read more meaning from the words if I were to have them in front of me.”
“Well, we shall have to continue this some other time then.”
“Of course, I would be happy to.”
Finally, finally the others decide to talk about something else, and Martin sits back in his chair with his drink and wonders why he always makes his most intelligent remarks when he’s metaphorically shitting himself. At his side, Mordechai jostles him for his attention.
“Hmm?”
“When did you learn enough about poetry to shut Jonah Magnus up?” He whispers, effectively flying underneath the mess of conversation around them.
“Is that hard?”
“God yes.” Mordechai looks at Jonah out of the corner of his eye. “The man can talk for hours if he feels like he knows more than you. It’s intensely irritating.”
Martin chuckles. “Then I’m more than willing to do so again.”
“Please.” The boy smirks at him. “I enjoy seeing him out of his depth.”
He scoffs. Of course you do. Martin is not one to make assumptions, especially when such assumptions were so… not frowned upon, that suggests that it isn’t possible to be killed for it, so dangerous, let’s say. However, there’s something going on here and he cannot express how little he wants to be involved.
Not that Peter ever gave him that agency, sometimes he still has nightmares of being asked what the eggplant emoji means.
Martin sighs and tries to, very stealthily, check his pocket watch. Thankfully, he sees the hands growing ever closer to the ridiculous time of 5pm and hopes that these last twenty minutes or so pass quickly.
Not long now.
--
It seems like an age until 5 o’clock rings, each of the many clocks in the expansive residence striking at once, and Martin breathes a sigh of relief. At least with the buffer of food he would have an excuse not to participate as actively in conversation, and hopefully could just fade into the background as he is so used to doing. As the clock strikes, Lady Magnus rises first and begins to show each lady into the dining room. First, of course, the Lukas matriarch, then her own children, then the Lukas sisters, Ophelia and Charlotte. Martin thinks it’s based on rank, but honestly he’s none the wiser, it’s not like he ever read Pride and Prejudice, and he spent most of the movie version swooning over Matthew Macfayden; all together he was far too busy to pay attention to whatever social rules were in place. All he knows is that he’s probably not allowed to sit down until they have, and that he’s probably been placed somewhere on the table in accordance with his own standing in society. The ladies disperse, then Lord Magnus rises and fetches the men, numbers steadily dwindling until Martin finds himself as the very last person escorted to the dining room. Charming.
Lord Magnus is quiet as they walk, although Martin isn’t sure if this is abnormal for the situation or not, or even abnormal for the man. He can’t help looking to his side every now and then, taking in those grey eyes that he knows so well cradled with crow’s feet and with an unusual warmth to them. It’s close to what he knows, but it’s not quite, and it’s slightly more unnerving than Martin can really explain. Regardless, it’s a short journey to the dining room and he’s immediately grateful for the roaring fire, the corridors of the house being cold with the seasonal weather. And then he sees the food.
What he assumes is the first of several courses is laid out in an artful array across a long table, name plates placed in front of each seat so everyone knows where they’re sitting, and God there is just so much food. When he used to study History, a very long time ago now, Martin remembers being distinctly baffled that a person could eat so much he would explode -that was a King, right? Now, looking at the meal in front of him, he suddenly understands. He can see soups, more than one whole roasted chicken, maybe even a turkey at the other end of the table, oysters, sweetbreads (yuck) and even a whole calves head which he’s not sure whether it’s decorative or not. There’s a pineapple too. Is that for eating?
Lord Magnus gestures towards his nameplate, at the other end of the table, next to Lord Magnus himself. Great. Martin makes his way over, walking past Mordechai who is currently surreptitiously exchanging his nameplate with Miriam so that he can sit by Jonah, naturally, and so that Miram can sit next to Charlotte, someone she clearly gets along with a lot better. Despite seating rules, he supposes there is still an element of flexibility, especially since the only thing Lord Magnus does is slightly shake his head at Jonah who simply smiles. Martin stands by his chair, belatedly realising he’s been sat closest to the sweetbreads which, contrary to their name, are not sweet and are incredibly gross, and waits for the ladies to sit down. They do so, and finally, finally, he can sit down.
And now he’s faced with another dilemma, does he serve himself? Who goes first? Is it a free for all?!
As Martin sits there in momentary panic, he realises that to his right, Lord Magnus is carving a turkey and everyone else is sitting watching him. Right, makes sense. He’s waffling about some story to keep people entertained, but Martin missed the beginning and is distinctly ungripped, instead occupying himself by continuing to take in his environment.
The various different smells of the dishes are all competing for his attention and a bottle of red wine sits tantalizingly close to him, but since nobody else seems to be making a go of it, he sits on his hands for now. The pineapple stands at the dead centre of the table, rather tactfully placed right in front of Oswald one side and Miriam the other, but it’s surrounded by other seasonal plants and not placed on a plate, so Martin can assume it is not to be eaten. He vaguely remembers reading something about people renting out pineapples to elevate a dinner party in the past, something that makes very little sense to him but hey ho, when has he ever understood the strange machinations of the upper class? Judging by all this food, he doubts he’d even fancy the pineapple if it was for eating. In front of him, a pearly white bowl sits atop a plate, so naturally Martin assumes they’ll be serving themselves soup first, though both soups look decidedly pale and watery and he’s not really sure about either. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers, and he’s sure it would be rude to turn down anything offered to him.
As Lord Magnus drones to the end of his story, people do start reaching for the soups, so Martin patiently waits his turn for the one nearest to him. He’s unsure of the etiquette involved in asking for something at the other end of the table, so resigns himself to probably having to stomach the sweetbreads later on. Mmm, pancreas.
Eloise, the middle Magnus sister to his left, passes him the paler of the two soups, and he spoons a healthy serving in his bowl before handing the soup on to Lord Magnus. Looking at it, Martin assumes nothing, there are almonds floating in it but that’s about all he can get from observing the strange dish. He watches as Eloise gracefully picks up the smallest spoon in their array of cutlery, holds it sideways and dips it into the soup. She sips from the spoon without making any noise and without spilling it down her lovely dress, Martin suddenly feels very nervous. It’s not like he’s disastrously clumsy, not like Jon, but he’s not the most dextrous of guys either, it may be a genuine challenge not to spill this soup on his black dinner suit. He dips his spoon in and holds it sideways like Eloise, bowing his head to try and sip as daintily as he can… and he is really not sure what to make of the soup. It’s got bacon in it, he can tell that much, and probably celery, but there’s a weird, sweet nutty note to it that’s from the almonds. It tastes like marzipan meets a ramen broth meets cream… it’s not the most unpleasant thing he’s ever had, but he can’t exactly say he’s impressed.
Around him, people are making vague noises of appreciation and chatting amicably, Martin resigns himself to a night of strange culinary choices and very, very wearily eyes up the calves head next to the chickens. At least the music’s nice.
Martin does a double take, he had quite literally not noticed the soft piano notes coming from the front of the room, nor the whole entire man playing said piano. From his position, he can’t see much of the piano player, a part of him is fairly certain he’s not supposed to pay attention to the man, nobody else is even giving him a glance. However, something made him tune into the music and Martin momentarily isn’t certain what.
He takes another sip of his soup and tries not to grimace. It’s sweet, why is it sweet, it’s a starter! Oh yeah, the music, why is the music interesting to him?
Because he recognises it, that’s why. Martin almost scoffs, he’s not a fan of classical music, not even close, so the only reason he can attribute to recognising this is Jon putting on Classic FM on the drive to Scotland. His own taste probably goes back only as far as the 1940s and that’s only because of his mother- hang on.
This is from the 1940s. The pianist is playing Glenn Miller, this is Moonlight Serenade.
What.
Martin looks up properly from his weird dessert soup and stares at the pianist. He can’t quite see him, not thanks to Miriam and Charlotte gossiping and blocking his diagonal view, but he can see blackish greyish hair and a distinct lack of sheet music. It could be possible that this pianist is simply improvising and managed to stumble across a tune that won’t be published for another one hundred and thirty years, it’s possible. But there’s a tiny little part of him that lights up in recognition, that lights up in hope.
Jon had promised, after all.
He shakes himself off of that silly train of thought and decides to push it away. It’s a coincidence, nothing more, nothing less, just an improvisation that happens to sound like one of his favourite songs, that’s it. However, the last note of Moonlight Serenade is wrong, not by much, not by any noticeable degree if you didn’t already know the exact chord, but it’s off. Martin doesn’t look up, simply resigns himself to stirring his soup absentmindedly and making distant conversation with Eloise; he barely wonders what caused the pianist to press the wrong note. Nerves? Yes, must be.
He can’t get his hopes up, he’s got sweetbreads to force himself through eating.
--
Jon eats dinner with the servants, one bringing him from the piano through the servants door, down a staircase and into the room off of a kitchen filled with a dozen other people sitting at what could loosely be described as a picnic bench. It’s quite convenial, all things considered, and the atmosphere is welcoming, even if he’s only really served bread, cheese and leftovers from the night before. He’s sat down and given a plate, sandwiched between a scullery maid and the boy who fetched him from the Argyll Rooms and spends much of the meal listening to them all talk shit about the Magnuses. Bizarrely enough, one of the people that comes out best from this conversation is Jonah himself. If Jon’s not mistaken, the tone of the servants seem downright affectionate when it comes to Jonah. They call him the ‘young master’ and titter at his strange fascination for scary stories. Little do they know the results of said fascination would be anything but charmingly endearing.
As badly as they talk about the Magnuses, they talk even worse about the Lukases. The general consensus is the girls seem nice enough, but Oswald is downright unpleasant and Mordechai would rather talk to dogs than people. Honestly, Jon does not blame him. The servants also have a lot to say about Captain Lukas and his involvement with sugar plantations in the Caribbean, Jon very firmly clasps his mouth shut and eats his bread and cheese, knowing that he’s going to pay the price for that later. Why humans haven’t evolved enough to eradicate lactose intolerance by now is beyond him.
Once the meagre dinner is consumed, Jon is led back out to the dining room by the same servant boy and told to start playing as soon as the clocks strike five. He nods, smiles, and tries not to look visibly nervous. The boy dips his head and turns away, slightly starting towards the servant’s door, then stops.
“Mr Sims, I hope you don’t mind me saying this.” He begins, turning back around. “But you do not have to be nervous. Before dinner, the household will pay you no head, and once you start singing, I dare say they may be too merry to mind much.” There’s a slight quirk to his lips and a glint of mischief in the boy’s eyes.
“Thank you for that.” Jon smiles. “However, no matter how many times I perform for an audience, I still feel that same fear.”
“An unfortunate thing sir.” The boy nods. “Best of luck.”
The boy disappears through the door and Jon takes a deep, steadying breath. He reaches into the pockets of his jacket and produces his notes regarding the pieces, placing them on the small table beside him. There is already a glass of water there for him, so he takes a sip as more servants emerge from the passages with arms laden full of food. An almost physical assault of scents batter his nose, there’s meats in there, fine gravies, some sort of nutty undertones and- good God that’s an entire turkey. Jon blinks and watches as these poor people try to juggle the dishes and, after some deliberating, he gets up from the piano stool.
“Excuse me, do you need assistance?” He asks in the vague direction of people dipping in and out.
“No, no, Mr Sims.” A slightly cockney lady, Jon thinks she’s the housekeeper, says. “We’ve done it all before.”
“Of course.” And that’s him told rather briskly to leave them to it.
He sits back down, stretches his fingers and, as the clocks in the house strike five, he begins to play.
Jon opens with a bit of Mozart, it’s slightly clunky, but as the household drifts in and takes their seats, his playing is mostly covered up with chatter and the clink of dishes. First, he underscores a rather interesting story from Lord Magnus regarding his sitting in Parliament the week prior. Of course, Jon is not surprised that he is a politician, but he must admit his interest is piqued, especially when he mentions King George the Third and his continuing ill health. If there is one thing Jon is grateful for in this weird, time-travel based existence he’s living, it’s the ability to be a fly on the wall during a monumental time in history. Of course, he will never get to know why the monarch became ‘mad’ as he did, but it’s genuinely fascinating. What his A-Level History teacher wouldn’t give to be here now.
He listens to the clink and passing of bowls, the pouring of wine, and continues his period-appropriate music, focussing very hard on placing his fingers in the right places and visualising the sheet music in his mind. He has no paper with which to jot it down and even if he did transpose it correctly, Jon has a suspicion his shoddily-written sheet music would only serve as a distraction. Plus, it seems to impress the gentleman at the Argyll Rooms that he can play so accurately based purely on memory, Jon doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he only learnt how to read music when he was about fifteen and had been playing purely by ear prior.
Once he’s certain everyone has been served, or served themselves, he’s not entirely sure when they switched from dining à la française to à la russe, Jon draws his classic Mozart to a close and switches to something he has to pay a lot less attention to. With a slight pang in his heart, he transitions into Moonlight Serenade, a reasonably simple tune but a beautiful one nonetheless. He learnt it for Martin, back at the safehouse, once he was told it was one of his favourite songs and, out of some sense of sentimentality he supposes, Jon has found a way to work it into every set he plays. He’s sure, somewhere along the line, that he’s probably shafted Glenn Miller, but honestly he doesn’t really care. It’s a beautiful song, he’s played it a million times, and it usually gives him an opening to scan the crowd.
He does so now, tentatively looking up and slightly over his shoulder towards the upper head of the table. As expected, Lady Magnus sits, taking the place of the hostess, and amicably chatting to another older lady who Jon probably guesses is Captain Lukas’ wife. Her white blonde hair seems to give that away. To her left, sits someone who definitely isn’t a Magnus or a Lukas, but probably married in, given his positioning next to the oldest Magnus sister. She honestly doesn’t look that enamoured with the bloke all things considered, but Jon doesn’t wish to speculate. On the opposite side, with his back to the piano, is Jonah, flanked both sides by Lukases, one male one female. Judging by how little attention he is giving the lady, Jon can assume that the man is Mordechai and resists smirking to himself as he loops the melody. Next to Mordechai is Miriam, the flame red hair means it cannot be anyone else even if Jon cannot see her face, and whoever she is opposite is quite funnily blocked with an ornamental pineapple. Beside him is another Magnus sister and next to her is-
Jon severely fucks up the last chord because sitting next to that Magnus sister, trying his best to look like he’s enjoying the soup, is Martin.
He pauses for a second, getting himself together and going into another easy tune, some ditty he memorised back when he was learning, then re-establishes his gaze on the man at the end of the table.
Curly, strawberry blonde hair has been fashioned into a classic regency cut, a weak attempt at mutton chops falling just short of sideburns into which the same sort of spectacles Jon wears perch. His face is full of freckles, lips quirked in an anxious smile and blue-grey eyes decidedly fixed away from the piano, paying the appropriately polite amount of attention to the lady beside him. He’s dressed rather finely, a black and white dinner suit and bow tie which makes him look exceptionally handsome, if Jon doesn’t say so himself. The man is slightly hunched, the air of self-consciousness and general unaccustomed vibe screams Martin. It has to be. It… It’s Martin.
Mouth suddenly very dry, Jon tries to tune into the conversation. He has to sort through the booming, Scottish cadence of Lord Magnus, the equally loud and annoying bass tones of Captain Lukas, the tittering giggles of the sisters, but there, underneath the cacophony, is Martin’s meek and mild tenor. He talks softly to the lady at his side, seemingly discussing horses, and his trademark stumbling and endearing half-words is so heart-wrenchingly familiar that Jon can feel tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.
No matter how much he wants to stand up, close the piano and rush into Martin’s arms, he can’t. Jon has to keep playing. Jon has to keep playing like the man he loves, scratch that, adores isn’t a matter of metres away when he was so certain they would never see each other again- that they were separated for good.
He has to keep playing.
--
As Martin makes short work of an oyster, he vaguely acknowledges that he feels sick. It’s definitely partially the food, there’s just so much of it, even more than he had thought prior. He thought they were done at one point, but the servants just appeared, cleared out the plates and replaced them with an entirely different set of dishes. Thankfully, this meant no more sweetbreads to avoid eating, but they were replaced by a dish Martin couldn’t even name that absolutely has some form of mushroom in that he’s not sure is edible, so he braved asking for a couple of dishes at the other end of the table, oysters and prawns that he did recognise. He’s not a fan of oysters, he thinks they have no right being that slimy, but he would rather not find out what the tiny little birds are nearby. A thought crosses his mind of his duckling cane with its little emerald eyes, he feels an odd sense of sadness and decides to stay far away.
So needless to say, when everyone finishes this second round of courses, Martin is not entirely thrilled to find out what, if anything, comes next. It’s about this time in a dinner that he would usually call it quits and whip out the plastic tubs stolen from rounds of takeaway Chinese. Yeah, he’d admit defeat and save the rest for another day. But no, the servants come out, they clear these dishes away, then come back for their plates, all the while underscored by the lovely pianist Martin is trying really hard not to think about.
He can’t see him, that’s the issue. If Martin could confirm whether this man was a stranger or… or someone more, maybe that would put his mind at ease. But no, instead, he is forced only to listen as whoever this is transitions into film scores and musicals that haven’t been written yet, and even some strange notes of ‘80’s pop that he genuinely does not know what to do with. All he knows is that this pianist has greying black hair, and that could be anyone. And he likes ABBA, he definitely likes ABBA.
Jon likes ABBA- No, we’re not doing this.
Martin sighs quite heavily and sits back, watching as the various dishes are replaced with little water bowls. He doesn’t know what they’re for and quite frankly he doesn’t care. What he would really like right now is to go to bed. Yes, it’s delightfully chilly outside, he’d love to wrap himself up in a nice warm quilt and just sleep . They don’t tend to wake you too early here either, it’s the most pleasant part of it all.
“Over-indulged in the oysters, hey lad?” Lord Magnus says, jovially clasping a hand onto his shoulder. Judging by the drastically depleted whiskey bottle, the man is probably a little worse for wear, his accent coming out full force. Not that Martin can say much in that regard, he has had more than his usual in terms of red wine.
“Maybe so, my Lord.” He manages.
“Ah, hope there’s still some room left for pudding.”
“Oh.” Martin squeaks, hoping that it doesn’t sound as pathetic as it feels. “There’s pudding?”
“Aye.” Lord Magnus nods his head. “It’s my favourite part. Have you ever had tipsy laird, boy?”
He can’t say he has. Martin mutely shakes his head.
“You’ll love it. Wash your hands, you’re holding up the table.”
“Oh.” Martin blinks into action, taking the bowl of very nice smelling water and dabbing in his hands, about as gracefully as a hesitant racoon. He dries them on the serviette provided and smiles back at Lord Magnus, who nods in approval.
The servants swoop in again, taking the bowls away as quickly as they’d come. Honestly, the service is incredibly quick, though that’s probably because there is far more at stake for these people. They don’t look unhappy, but Martin knows that facade is incredibly easy to put on, especially in customer service. Costa barista is probably the worst job that he’s ever had, and he was supernaturally tied to an evil organisation for five- three- four… An amount of years.
Anyway, out comes the dessert.
This one is served individually this time, in quaint little crystal glass bowls, and, if Martin isn’t mistaken, it’s trifle. He loves a trifle, can always just about squeeze in a trifle after Christmas dinner, ok, he can do this. The heads of the table are served first, then each person that outranks him gets their dessert, they finish with him, as usual. Not that he cares much, gives him more time to side-eye the pianist, who seems to be downing water and getting ready to sing.
Oh God. He’s going to sing.
Martin’s dessert is placed in front of him and this is probably the one dish tonight that he could comfortably say looks absolutely delicious. Don’t get him wrong, the turkey and chicken were nice, but they were all sort of overshadowed by the variety of dubious dishes around too. This, however, looks delectable. There seems to be a layer of what is likely raspberry jam or jelly in the bottom, followed by a layer of some kind of cake. An English trifle usually has lady’s fingers soaked in sherry, but, since this is Scottish, Martin figures they’re probably soaked in whiskey instead. Then, there’s a layer of raspberries, turned towards the rim of the bowl, exposing their intricate seeds. It’s topped off with a layer of custard, cream and more raspberries and Martin is genuinely looking forward to this.
He waits in cruel anticipation for the rest of the table to start eating, then takes his cue and God it is as delicious as it looks. A rich, velvety custard with notes of orange, the slight bitterness from the whisky paired with the natural sweetness and slight tartness of the raspberry. If the rest of the night was Martin’s Hell, this is Heaven.
“Good?” Lord Magnus asks.
Martin swallows his mouthful. “I see why it’s your favourite, my Lord.”
He smiles and nods approvingly, and mercifully, Martin is left to his own devices with his tipsy laird. He’s so gonna make this when he gets home, Jon has a massive sweet tooth, he’ll love it-
The harsh pang of reality hits him faster than the whiskey. He can’t make it, he has no home and he has no Jon. He sighs and stares into the half-demolished dessert, the raspberries suddenly tasting sharper than they should. Maybe he shouldn’t have drank tonight, wine tends to make him quite melancholic, but, to be fair to him, there was quite literally no other option.
And purple-stained mouth; that I might drink, and leave the world unseen. That’s Keats.
He shouldn’t refill his glass tonight.
General conversation has died down now, and Martin watches out of the corner of his eye as Lord Magnus nods to the pianist. And now, to rub salt in the wound, this guy is gonna sing.
The first few notes begin, and of course Martin recognises them. Not only is this guy gonna sing, he’s gonna sing ABBA, and he’s gonna sing one of Jon’s favourites because of course he is. Martin resigns himself to morosely stirring the mess of custard and cream in his bowl… but then realises he does actually still want to eat it. And he times his next bite just perfectly as the pianist starts to sing.
“Where is the Spring and the Summer, that once was yours and mine? ”
Martin whips his head up so quickly he’s certain he’s done himself an injury, slightly choking on his bite. This isn’t just some time-travelling idiot that decided to sing ABBA at a high society dinner party, no, Martin recognises that voice. He recognises that voice from years of hearing it muffled behind an office door, surrounded by static and crackles. He knows that voice from half-hearted karaoke on a terrifying drive to Scotland, from absentminded singing during that blissful two weeks where nothing went wrong for them, knows that voice almost as well as he knows his own; some may say more so.
The man that sits at the piano singing ABBA oh-so-beautifully, is Jon.
It’s as if a bucket of ice-cold water has suddenly been dumped on Martin’s head, he’s more alert than he’s been in the past however long this dinner has taken to eat, and he cranes his neck slightly to get a look at the pianist proper. He’s not the only one as well, something defensive creeps into his chest as he notices some of the girls exchanging a quick glance, even more so when he sees Jonah at the other end of the table has turned in his seat. All that subsides though when he finally, finally gets a proper look at Jon.
He’s cut his hair, or had someone do it for him. Still wavy, still greying prematurely, but clipped to a similar length he had back at the very beginning of it all, back before upkeep became too bothersome with the looming threats of literally everything being out to get him. Back when Martin first fell for him. Perched on his nose, occasionally being pushed up when there’s a gap in the music, are the exact same pitiful round spectacles that Martin found, tiny and unhelpful. Jon’s eyes are that wonderful deep brown instead of the neon green he had become accustomed to post-Change, and clusters of worm scars from Jane Prentiss are still scattered across his face like constellations. He’s dressed like a performer, not a gentleman, a light green ascot tied around an upturned collar, olive waistcoat possibly ending in tails but Martin can’t see that beyond the piano, regardless, he looks ever so handsome.
And he’s looking right at Martin.
“Darling our love was just too strong to die, we’ll find a way to face a new tomorrow.”
And Martin might just die, right there, right then. Jon looks at him and he smiles, that warm, delightful, genuinely ecstatic smile he does when he’s just got everything he’s wanted. When he’s won a take-out battle, persuading Martin to get curry instead, when someone tells him he’s done a good job, the one he smiles when Martin wakes him up in the morning with the perfect cup of tea and a kiss. That smile.
Of course, Martin grins right back at him.
--
The rest of the performance is a blur for Jon. The minute he makes eye contact with Martin, the man seeing him for who he is and just looking so amazingly and fantastically relieved , he stops giving two shits about what he’s playing. He defaults to easy songs, the occasional sea shanty that Captain Lukas gets far too into, even briefly panicking and playing Sweet Caroline, to which Martin raises an eyebrow and mouths “really?” at him. Despite this, he’s never been happier, because Martin is here . Martin is here and he is looking at him and Jon wants to kiss him so badly. Martin aside, the household seems to be enjoying the end of the performance as well, as slapdash as it is, giving more and more abandoned applause the further down they get in their drinks.
The only moment Jon is particularly aware of is the lead up to midnight. Lord Magnus holds up a hand as he finishes his latest tune and stares at the ticking copper hands of the big grandfather clock in the corner. Everyone is quiet as the first of many dings and dongs of clocks across the house start and the head of the household rises from his chair. He crosses to the door, giving Lady Magnus a quick kiss on the cheek as he does so, and opens the grand oak fixture, ushering in the New Year as was Hogmanay tradition. There’s pleasantries exchanged, some kisses -Mordechai and Jonah manage to get away with a peck on the cheek to Jon’s building amazement- all the while, Jon can’t tear his eyes away from Martin.
Martin smiles, mouths ‘Happy New Year’ and blows him a kiss. He grins in return, miming an overdramatic catch of the kiss and pressing it affectionately to his lips.
“Should old acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? ”
A full chorus joins in with him as he plays in the New Year with a very traditional Auld Lang Syne. Even though most of the people in front of him Jon would rather not see again, the whole atmosphere is incredibly jovial, and honestly he feels quite happy all things considered. The warm glow of the fire illuminates everyone’s slightly red faces, they join together singing a song that in the current time isn’t even that old, at least the tune isn’t, but becomes so ingrained in culture that even those of the future at least know the chorus. There’s something about that that he finds oddly beautiful, that all these people -well, bar two- are dead and gone, but they still share in this common song.
“For auld lang syne, my dear, for auld lang syne.”
And then, as the atmosphere continues its boisterous and merry trajectory, Jon launches into a song that usually closes out his own New Years’ celebrations, making a joke that only Martin, with red stained lips and a slightly manic smile, laughs at. In song, with piano playing that has certainly gotten sloppier the longer the night progressed, Jon urges the audience to enjoy themselves, informs them that it’s later than they think and that the years go by as quickly as a wink. Such a simple tune, one that always closes out Jools Holland on BBC Two, and it fills him with joy.
With his last few chords, the party disbands. Ladies announce they wish to retire, Jonah and Mordechai disappear off to God knows where, others retreat to the drawing room for a nightcap no doubt. They leave Jon sitting at the piano, catching his breath, alone.
Well, alone, apart from Martin.
As Jon realises they’re the last two in the room, his breath catches in his throat. There’s a sudden quiet, an old, familiar nervousness and tension in the air as they stand, unsure of themselves, several metres apart. This is all he has wanted, for three months he has dreamed of this moment, this union, but all he can do is shakily get to his feet and step down from the platform.
“Hi.” Martin says, quietly and with such a reverence about him that suggests he’s half afraid he’s dreaming, and if he’s too heavy handed, everything will fade away.
“Hi.” Jon returns, his cheeks hurting from smiling, and crosses the last points of distance between them.
He looks up at Martin, places a hand out, touches his cheek, just as the tears that his eyes have been threatening since they met eyes spill out and grace his thumb.
“I- I-” He stutters, stumbles, Jon loves him so much that his heart genuinely aches with the pressure. “I don’t even know what to say, I have so many questions.”
Jon laughs, tentative and giggling. “You have questions? Martin you’re masquerading as a Lukas!”
“And you ripped off ABBA two hundred years before they were on Eurovision!”
They both laugh, before pausing and taking a shared, slightly wobbly breath. Martin returns the contact, bringing a warm hand up to rest lightly on Jon’s arm. It’s tentative, barely even registering on Jon’s slightly scarred skin, as if Martin can’t quite believe this is real. Jon understands this, he can’t believe it either, can’t believe that anything like this would go right for them, but yet it has. They are here and they are together and they are real.
Martin sniffs and bows his head, whispering so quietly Jon has to concentrate hard to hear him. “I’m sorry.”
Jon blinks. “Martin, what? I- I- I’m the one that messed with the plan, if anything, I should be saying sorry-”
“No, no, no-” He looks up from the ground, fiercely looking at Jon with bright blue eyes made more intense with the presence of tears. “ You didn’t stab me, I did that!”
“Because I gave you no choice!” He shakes his head. “Martin!”
“Jon!”
Jon’s gaze softens, his shoulders dropping and tension flooding away. “How about this?”
“Hmm?” The other mumbles, hands finding Jon’s hips and drawing him in close.
“How about we’re both sorry?”
“Yeah.” Martin chuckles, leaning his forehead on Jon’s. “I can live with that.”
“Good.”
And Jon leans up, brings his other hand to Martin’s other cheek, and pulls him in for a kiss.
Like their last kiss, it tastes like tears, but that’s where the similarities end. It’s not mournful, the tears are happy instead of bitterly depressed, there’s no metallic pang of blood in the air, just the slight tang of wine from Martin’s lips. One hand rests on his hip, the other finding his hair and holding Jon so completely that he feels entirely safe. It’s warm, passionate and filled with hope, despite their situation. Hasn’t that always been the case?
Yes, they have a million and one questions for each other. Yes, they don’t particularly know where they’ll go from here, it’s uncertain and worrisome and trying to stop a person from turning into a monster has already been found to be a distinctly unfruitful endeavour. But they’re here, they’re with each other. Where you go, I go.
It is January 1st, 1814, and Jonathan Sims has never felt so lucky.