A/N- hey everyone! It's been a while. Im currently relistening to The Magnus Archives in preparation for the new series coming out this year, and was suddenly hit with that fanfic inspiration that hasn't gripped me in a long time. Hope you enjoy!

MAG 160- 'The Eye Opens'
Except Martin goes back and manages to save Jon before he reads the whole statement, and everything actually just turns out okay. Beginning text and statement text is taken directly from the episode transcript.
[Martin uses he/him pronouns and Jon uses they/them.]
Barely any warnings needed, perhaps a slight warning for violence and body horror (third eye). But this is literally just descriptions of pretty Scottish landscape and Martin being a darling. Cover art is by me.

"Well," Martin said, standing up and pulling his coat from the hook on the door, "as fun as listening to you monologue is - I will give you some privacy." He smiled fondly at Jon over the back of the sofa, where they sat with the box of tapes and statements on their lap. "Go for a walk."

Jon smiled back. "Let me know if you see any good cows."

Martin grinned as he opened the door to the little cottage. "Obviously I'm going to tell you if I see any good cows."

He heard Jon chuckle quietly to themself as he closed the door behind him. He felt warm.

The air was cool and fresh outside, and bright, dewey, mid morning Scottish sunlight dazzled him. The view from the safe house was really quite beautiful. A rolling moorland, lush with plum coloured heather and sweet smelling low growing grasses, the mountains rising up to meet them from the distance.
Once on the doormat, there were four main paths Martin could take. On the path to his right, there was a more swampy, fenlike area which, if you walked along the narrow sheep-made path for twenty minutes or so, led down to a small waterhole where there were moody toads, glittering dragonflies, and, if they were lucky, little gleaming silver fish which would dart out from beneath the rocks.
On the path to his left there was a woodland. It wasn't thick or imposing, but light, the trees young, growing far apart from each other and allowing sunlight to stripe the mossy ground beneath his boots. The trees got denser the further down the hillside you went, ending in a larger woodland which stretched off further than Jon or Martin had yet explored. At night, lying in the surprisingly comfortable double bed in the small upstairs of the safe house, they could hear owls calling to each other in soft hoots.
The middle two paths were much more pedestrian and maintained. One was the actual road that they had driven up in Martin's grandfathers old camper van, skidding and bumping over rocks, and the other led to a very small, very old, farm.
All it kept, it seemed, we're cows and chickens, although Martin and Jon were yet to meet the farmer themself. They just enjoyed saying hello to the fluffy (and very friendly!) Scottish Highland cows who lived over the fence just five minutes down the hill from the cottage. (Jon had said they supposed the cows didn't get all that much attention out here, and were probably quite glad of the strokes. Martin had said he thought they were probably right, and had squeezed Jon's hand.)

Martin headed that way now, towards the field. He couldn't see any of the cows yet- perhaps they were in the barn.

But then a low, rolling fog began to creep up around his ankles.

This happened a lot in the highlands. The speed of the fog had worried Jon at first- they suspected the Lonely might have somehow followed them. But after it had happened a few more times, and all that happened was that Martin got a bit shaky and maybe tearful, they realised that that's just what fog was like up here. It wasn't pleasant. But it wasn't supernatural or malevolent. It was just fog.

Today it seemed to hit Martin harder than usual. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps it was because Jon wasn't with him, for the first time in weeks. They had spent so much time together, especially directly after leaving the Lonely. Martin hadn't been able to bare being left alone for more than a few minutes, those first few days, terrified that Jon wasn't coming back, that he was alone again. The sight of the fog curling around his boots made his palms go clammy and his fingers tremble. His heart beat a little faster and he tried to calm himself down by breathing, taking deep, gentle breaths of that cool, crisp air in and out, in and out, in and out. But it wasn't enough and Martin could feel himself start to panic. He needed to stabilise himself- to ground himself.

Tea.

Yes, tea. Tea always helped.

He would go back to the cottage, go in quietly, making sure not to startle Jon during their... meal, and make himself a nice, calming cup of tea. Seeing Jon would help too, he was sure. He didn't have to speak to them, just see them and remind himself that he wasn't alone. That he was safe, and loved, and would never go back to the Lonely again. Then he continue with his walk, if he felt like he could, and if not he could cozy away upstairs with his tea and a book until
Jon was finished. Easy.

He kept up his calm breathing all the way back to the cottage, reminding himself that he was safe, he was okay, telling himself it would be easy, but he could feel himself slipping. He supposed he had been foolish to think that he would recover quite so fast. Some things took time, he told his pounding heart. That was okay, he told his shaking hands. He just needed to be patient with himself.
It would be okay, he told himself, as he reached the cottage door.
He took another deep breath, resolutely not looking at the fog now following him up towards the house, and pushed open the door. 

Jon was sitting on the sofa still, a piece of paper in their hands, speaking in that slow, methodical voice that always took over during his statement recordings. Martin relaxed as soon as he saw them.

He closed the door quietly behind him and shrugged off his coat, looking at the back of Jon's head. They didn't seem to have noticed Martin, as even though it sounded like they had only just started reading the statement, they got so engrossed in them so quickly that Martin wasn't surprised. He smiled fondly to himself and started into the kitchen.

"...nal statement given August 9th, 1992," he heard Jon continue from the living room. The sound of their voice calmed Martin much more successfully than the breathing had done. He sighed and felt his hands finally still as he filled the kettle with enough water for two mugs of tea. "Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, The Archivist. Statement begins."

The fire crackled and the kettle began to whistle. The house was peaceful. Martin felt truly happy.

"Hello, John."

Martin's eyes, which had been closed softly as he stood waiting by the sink for the kettle to boil, snapped open. He spun around to see Jon's figure through the open kitchen door. They had gone ridged.

"Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself."

That wasn't Jon's voice. That was Elias- no, Magnus's voice, the bastard.

One final trick.

Martin ran through the door to Jon's side, then stopped, unsure of what to do. Jon's eyes were closed, but the third bright green one between their brows was open, and staring at the paper intently.

"I'm assuming you're alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private."

"You assumed wrong, you piece of shit," Martin muttered, watching Jon carefully. He didn't want to hurt them, but he had to stop them reading. Anything Magnus had to say could not be good news.

"I wouldn't try too hard to stop reading; there's every likelihood you'll just hurt yourself. So just listen."

Martin's hands curled into fists as rage did the same in his stomach.

How DARE he? After everything they'd been through, now this? Using Jon as some sort of sick vessel? No. Enough was enough. Maybe it would hurt Jon, but Martin felt that the risk was worth it.

"Now, shall we turn the page and try again?"

Jon made a pained sound as their hand reached, clearly against their own will, to turn the page.

"No, I don't think we shall, you fucking arsehole!" Martin yelled, and ripped the piece of paper from Jon's grip.

As their fingers lost contact with the statement, Jon screamed. It was an awful sound- pained and frustrated, almost desperate. Martin blanched. It didn't sound like Jon, and he was worried that they were still being Compelled, that their connection to the Eye was too strong now, and that he had severed a vital link. But then he had to wrench the paper out of their grasping hand again as Jon grabbed for it. Their eyes were still closed. The third eye was burning with hatred for Martin. They were definitely being Compelled by the Beholding.

Jon may have been stronger and quicker than they looked, but before they could reach for it again, Martin threw the paper into the fire. Jon's second scream tore through Martin like physical pain. Jon lunged after him, stretching out to try and retrieve the statement. Martin had to physically restrain them from shoving their fist into the crackling logs and glowing in the fireplace. The statement was quickly eaten up by flames and curled into ash. Jon sagged in Martin's arms, and their third eye closed. They went limp.

Martin gently carried them to the sofa and laid them back on the cushions, draping the patchwork blanket from the armchair over their still form. Eventually, his breathing returned to normal and his heart rate slowed. He brushed Jon's hair away from their face. The third eye remained closed, and as Martin watched, the eyelid began to sink into the skin of Jon's forehead. His own eyes widened in shock. Jon didn't seem to be in discomfort; they twitched in their sleep but otherwise made no reaction to their third eye simply... melting away. Martin blinked the it has disappeared completely.

The fire spat in the quiet house.

Jon woke three days later. They were confused and groggy. Martin made them tea and sandwiches and sat by them and explained in a calm, slow voice what had happened. Jon listened as best they could, taking small but almost frantic bites out of the sandwiches, seemingly suddenly much hungrier than Martin could ever remember them being. They told Martin in a quiet voice that everything seemed murky and foggy, that they couldn't focus on anything, could Know anything. Eventually the pair of them came to the inevitable conclusion that Jon had lost their Eye powers.

Jon grieved, but it was intermingled with a huge, strange feeling of relief.

They were human again.

And while they were so grateful to Martin, who from the sounds of it had saved the world, and Jon, they couldn't help feeling a small spark of resentment towards the loss of their third eye. They didn't miss the horrible sea of knowledge from which they could only take sips, but now that the door was closed, they felt a significant loss.

It did mean that they had to learn how to look after a human body again. But that was okay. Martin was there to help.

He cooked for Jon every day, who, having forgone the need to eat for several years now, was suddenly ravenous a lot of the time but lacking any cooking knowledge.

Luckily acts of service was one of Martin's love languages.