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The archives are quiet. Everyone is away, out on business or just plain avoiding the place. Jon doesn't blame them. He would be too, if the outside world didn't feel worse, didn't make him want to hunt, to consume. At least here there's...food, as weak and unfilling as the statements are.
He's always hungry. Starving for food, for a real statement, and perhaps the worst of all: he's lonely. Both remind him of how utterly monstrous he is, even with his restraint. The part of him that's always...well, hated himself tells him it's what he deserves. He doesn't deserve trust or love or anything. Perhaps his nature has always been to take, and this is just the logical extension of that hunger.
He tells himself to trust Martin. He wants to. He thinks he even loves Martin, but he knows that, even if Martin still loved him, Jon doesn't deserve him. He failed to rescue Daisy from the coffin, he’d hardly had enough strength to drag himself out, even with the help of the tape recorders. Honestly, the call of the mud and earth and the promise of crushing peace nearly got him. It would have been such sweet surrender. Only the thought of Martin brought him out.
It's no wonder Basira hates him. He can't even blame her. He hates himself too, too much of a monster to properly sacrifice himself.
If he focuses, Jon can see a fog creeping underneath the door. It slowly seeps into the office, and a tape recorder turns on. Part of Jon is relieved, knowing an end could be upon him, and that he won't be a mystery. He won't just disappear, and that at least Martin might find this tape.
Lonely prey are best taken alone, after all. He doesn't think anyone will rescue him, nor should they. There's no need to put themselves in danger. Just one less wicked thing inhabiting the world.
He can feel the air temperature drop and settle into his bones. His longing for Martin grows.
"It's alright, you can have me. Elias might mind, but I really don't." Jon calls to the fog, or whoever might be behind it.
He almost swears he can hear waves, and they remind him of his youth, his lost parents, and his distant grandmother. He can't help but think that if the Web or Beholding hadn't found him, perhaps the Lonely might have. The ache is certainly familiar enough by now.
"Well, that's certainly a morbid thought," he muses out loud, staring at the statement he had been considering reading, "How easily I could have slipped through the cracks and into your grasp. How... homey this cold could have been. Such a welcome shield from the world, from the fear."
His breath is coming out in puffs, and Jon wants to shiver. Even the fear that had begun to snake its way through his system is seeping out, slowly, to be replaced with something else.
Jon can feel the weight of the Eye, and of Elias trying to peek in, keep him in their greedy grasp. The fog makes it easier for him to avoid it, the quiet bubble of outsider knowledge in his head slowing to a trickle. It's almost a relief, even as a part of him, the part properly given life after the coma, shrieks and curls in on itself. The hunger, too, seeps away, and Jon's head feels clear for the first time in a long while.
That leaves room for the tide of emotions to come crashing in. They feel both intense and distant, the high peaks and the distant sea at war within. Watching it, feeling it, makes him feel like a spectator to his own emotions.
It's lovely. More understandable this way than before. Tears run down his face, salty like the waves he hears more clearly now. The sadness that's been inside for so long is pulled out to sea and it leaves him empty.
The next crashing wave is anger. The fury at always being last, never what anyone wanted, despite all his best efforts. The anger and sarcasm he's used as a shield, that has only driven others away. He's never been enough, not for his family, or Georgie, not for his staff, or Elias. Not even for Martin. The man did leave him for Peter Lukas, after all.
The fury is gone almost as soon as it comes. The numbness feels deeper now, like he's going to drown in it. He probably is.
Others come and go and are washed away, the tide pulling everything from him, washing him clean, emptying him out. The last wave, he can feel coming like a storm, like lightning under his skin.
Love. It comes in like fire, and it burns. It's too much. It feels bright and pure, without the rest clogging up his senses. It hurts though, soul deep.
He's sobbing. Thoughts of Georgie, and his friends, and Martin. He's glad they're out, he's glad they don't need him. He's so glad.
"I love you, I love you, god Martin, I love you so much. Why now? When I'm going to drown in fog? Why can I say it now?"
He can feel it pulling out, that last piece of himself. The tide is so loud in his ears and he can't hear himself over his continued apologies and confessions of love.
"I'm so sorry," he chokes out, "Please know that I'm so sorry that—that it couldn't work out. That I was so awful to you and can only say what I actually feel when it's too late for us. I love you, Martin Blackwood."
As soon as the words are out, it's gone, and all he's left with is an empty sort of peace, a new distance he's never had before, and that old friend of his, loneliness.
It's freeing.
"Thank you, old friend. Just find your way to Martin, won't you?"
He pats the the tape recorder, and it clicks off with a strange finality.
His office is gone when he blinks next, and he's by a chilly ocean, alone. The beach is desolate and empty, and Jon loves it dearly in that moment.
***
Jon doesn't know how long he's there until a voice speaks up from behind him.
"Well, this certainly is a surprise. And here I thought Martin would be the one to succumb to the Lonely, not you, Archivist. Who knew you'd make such a lovely servant?"
Jon glances up with an absent little quirk of his lips. His gaze passes over the interim Head of the Institute. He thinks perhaps that he should be furious at his appearance and words. He isn't.
"Peter Lukas. What did I do to earn such a visit?"
The smile Peter has is just distant. He's staring out to sea now, and Jon turns his eyes out to the water too. A moment lapses before Peter says anything.
"Martin is terribly upset with me. I was supposed to protect you in exchange for his cooperation."
Jon knows he should be feeling something, and looks for the words in his chest, on his lips. He doesn't find any. Only the barest hint of surprise colours his tone.
"Is he actually?" Jon can't imagine someone feeling upset, especially for his sake. At him, maybe, but not for him. It's not like it really matters anyway.
"Very," Peter says, and it sounds just to the left of amusement. "He's terribly protective of you."
"...surprising. I'm not particularly worth it." It would've sounded self deprecating before. Now it just rings of truth.
"Elias is also terribly grumpy. You've cost him something quite dear."
Jon can hear the wry smugness and empty excitement.
"Good," Jon says, something dangerous, done, a snap of old teeth. He is done with Peter and Elias and whatever game they might be playing, and his tone shows it. He's already longing for the quiet again and not this tedious man's presence.
"You could probably leave this place if you so choose, Archivist—"
"Jon."
"What?" The barest hint of confusion lurks on Peter's face and Jon shakes his head.
"I'm not the Archivist anymore. The Eye no longer has any sway over me."
Even in the vast emptiness of this place, Jon thinks he would know if it did. He can't sense anything but the fog and the cooling place where his heart should be. The old thirst has been slaked. He has a different sort of hunger now, something with a different sort of teeth.
"-Oh. Well, seek your exit as you wish, Jon. I might have some use for you now."
"I will be beholden to no one, Peter Lukas. Now please, leave me to my peace."
There's almost a buzz of commanding static behind Jon's teeth, pushing its way out into the space between them. Jon closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Peter Lukas is gone.
***
"-on. Jon!"
Jon thinks he can hear someone calling his name, but pays them no mind. He's sitting in the sand, eyes closed and relaxed, looking at what would be skyward, thoughts wandering, the dying ember of affection in his chest a pleasant ache. Clearly he's imagining Martin, his voice, and his footsteps. They're a sweet torment, and not his first here.
He's already heard Georgie's goodbye, his grandmother's quiet resentment, Tim's "I don't forgive you", Melanie's sharp tongue and the ghost of a scalpel in his skin, and Basira's post-coffin shouting. Why wouldn't Martin be next?
"Jon!"
He opens his eyes, startled to find the desperate shouting a lot closer. This hallucination is particularly good, it actually looks like Martin, worried and furious and more faded than Jon remembers.
There are hands on the wrist nearest to it, heat and pressure and love seeping into his skin. Jon pulls back, as if burned. Suddenly he's doubting whether this is actually a hallucination.
Which can't be right. Martin should know better than to come in here and find Jon, who's already lost and washed clean thanks to this ocean of tears. He wouldn't want this shade of a man.
"-on! Can you hear me?"
Jon's eyes snap to Martin's for a brief second before he drops them, the weight in them too much, blazing light and...and more. It's too much.
"Yes." His mouth answers, in rebellion, running ahead of him, accompanied by the slightest tingle.
At least Martin hasn't touched him again, he thinks, something in him twisting, begging to consume the desperate edge of loneliness seeping off of Martin. Something else just wants to lean in, stare and take Martin in, because if he's here, then it must mean he still feels something for Jon besides contempt.
Jon doesn't dare consider what it is, despite his awareness of Martin's old feelings. It's a painful notion, even feeling as cold as he does. He can see Martin opening his mouth to speak, to say something that could shake Jon even more. He beats him to the punch.
"I really loved you, you know."
Martin looks stricken. Is he horrified, perhaps, that such a monster had feelings for him? Jon stares at Martin's hand instead, and his own fingers itch to touch, like the intrusive impulse to put his hand on a hot stove. He wonders how much it would burn if he held on.
Jon's words ring hollow to his own ears. He can feel the spark still there, a dying little light that he's slowly feeding to the Lonely. It makes a good tribute. He just doesn't want Martin to get more hurt than he needs to.
"You should leave me here, Martin. I'm no use to you, and the fear is so quiet here. It's been a relief after the last few years, and after you left me."
…Jon hadn't meant to say the last part. Not really. It still stings him, in a strange sort of way. Abandoned by everyone, and now that he's properly abandoned himself, they come for him?
"I love you, Jon. That's why I came." Martin has a hard edge to his words, a cutting steel.
"I didn't deserve it then, and I don't now. People are safer with me here, and no one wanted me anyway. Not even you, not really."
Martin reaches out again and Jon doesn't flinch back. He just lets it burn.
"You do deserve to be saved, Jon, you're not a monster. I need you."
Jon shakes his head, tries to focus anywhere but on the bright intensity of Martin's face. He tries to keep hold of the chill, but the heat is melting the edges of frost off of his soul. He fears the paper shell of his heart might curl up into ash, fighting between the growing pressure of the Eye and the Lonely.
"Look at me, Jon. What do you see?"
The pressure builds, the buzzing in Jon's ears and the urge to spill everything seeping into him.
"You, Martin. I see you. I see love. Is that why you...you came? I don't, I don't understand."
Martin's other hand creeps to wrap around Jon's other wrist, grounding Jon and holding him like an anchor. He can feel the warmth spreading further, like the first thaw of spring.
"I love you too, Jon. I can't lose you again. So please, please, come with me. I can't stand the thought of leaving you alone anymore."
He pulls Jon to his feet, the incoming tide splashing their heels. Jon practically falls into Martin's arms, and buries himself in that big, comforting embrace. It still hurts, but the slow, steady beat of Martin's heart is too wonderful, Jon's speeding up to catch up with it and match tempo.
"Take me home, please," he murmurs, soft, into Martin's chest, "I'm already tired of the cold."