Chapter Text
It hurt.
To be seen, after so long hiding away from the world, it stung at his skin in patches of warmth that felt almost alien to him after forced isolation.
There had been nothing. And that nothing had been almost euphoric.
To feel nothing.
To be nothing.
To die would be an adventure.
To be cast off from all the pain that felt like it had been his only catalyst for such a long time. The fog had welcomed him like an old friend, cool to the touch as it wrapped him in its numbing grip.
Peter was right. It was easier to be alone. He didn't want to end the extinction he didn't want to stop the beholding he wanted nothing. Not here in the void of nothingness that held him closer than any other had before.
He wanted nothing more than to embrace the empty to bury the last part of himself into the grips of the forsaken.
It was worth it for Jon, he would succeed where he had failed. It would all be worth it if he was safe.
But…
And there was always a but .
A voice had spoken, soft like a prayer on the wind, calling to him… edging past the hold of the forsaken. His name.
Was it his name? It sounded like a name, but, what is a name?
Nothing but a handle for a thing that never really existed, the things we love, “ the people we love don't exist” … he heard the words on the air like a memory in a future that had never happened.
Did he have a name?
Was he even a person?
Did he exist if nobody saw him for days on end, weeks at a time? How long had he wandered in the fog? If he was nothing, could he have a name?
He thought of Helen, of Michael… they had names but were they not everything? If nothing could be everything, would it have a name?
Would he have a name? If he never existed, would he need one?
He thought of the Lukas family.
They had names. But if nobody spoke them did they exist?
He thought of Keay's, Mary and then of Gerry, the way he had cast off his name… was it easier to be nothing? Names belonged to people, not things or things that used to be something, but now were nothing...nobody important.
The sound broke through the soft background hiss of the waves. A name said in reverence. A whisper on the wind, a tug on a tiny thread of a heart that refused to give up…
The eye. The beholding, it was here in this place of nothing. It wanted back its own. It refused to let him slip away, it burned in his chest, aching.
A name.
Martin.
It was his name.
He had a name, but it had never been spoken like this, this name didn't belong to him, this name belonged to someone else. The idea of someone else.
He needed to tell that to the owner of the softly spoken sound. He loved that voice once, some time before nothing was everything and the world no longer hurt. The voice spoke to him in the darkness, its sharpness blunted now, wrapped in tones that offered protection and something new.
No not new, something that had always been part of it, mixed in with the despair and the pain and the fear.
The fear was all he could hear it echoed louder than a scream in the silence.
The voice spoke again. The Beholding pushing against the fog of the Forsaken, the fear that wrapped around the voice calling him back to it, the Beholding wanted its own, the Forsaken could not have it.
“Martin”
The voice now had sensation attached to it, a burning that loitered on the skin and set fire where it touched, his vision swam, words that felt distant to even his own ears fell from his mouth, a statement of sorts, feeding a god that had not quite finished with this shell of a man that now weighed heavy with the burden of more than one.
He couldn’t feel Peter anymore, he was gone. Space where he should not be filled with emptiness. A void filled with nothing.
He was gone.
But Martin, yes Martin, that was his name, he remembered now, his name was Martin.. Martin Blackwood, he Knew that now. The voice had told him. The voice that now had a presence real and solid and wrapping around him.
Eyes.
Two eyes, in the nothing that was everything. Eyes, and a face to go with it, a face he knew.
“-what do you see?”
‘ What did he see?’ He saw pain, he saw fear, a million tiny actions pressing together and swirling in ways that he couldn’t comprehend. He felt the fear, the want and the loss, a pain unclear if it came from inside himself or from within the man who stood in front of him now, scared and laid bare for only him to see… and now he saw, he watched and he knew.
Jon, it was Jon. His Jon. He saw the pain and the loss and fear and love, he understood why the void faded in the background as the man pulled him towards him.
“I see you, Jon.”
It took a long time for the fog to clear. Even when the haze of the forsaken no longer clung to them with its tendrils of despair, it hung ever-present on him like a shadow dispersed by numerous sources of light. Always present but not necessarily visible. His mind and body felt out of sync as if it were being controlled by something outside his comprehension. Following the sensation of heat in his left hand he glanced down to where fingers wrapped around his own, the figure his mind registered as Jon tugged him onwards. Jon had him, he could feel the way his palms pressed against his grounding him, fighting against the constant drag of the fog that wanted nothing more than to pull him back into its grasp. As the soft sand of the forsaken turned to solid brick underfoot, so did the reality of the current situation, Elias, Jonah, Peter… the Panopticon… Jon.
He froze, unable to force his feet to move from the spot as the cold iron bars and dark gloom of the abandoned Millbank prison swam in and out of his vision.
Jon had saved him from the Forsaken.
Jon had killed Peter.
Martin had not killed Jonah.
He did not have a plan. To end his life at the hand of the forsaken had been the end game. But now? The air seemed heavy in his lungs, the world seemed to spin, the ground coming up to meet him. The blissful nothing came back to claim him.
“Oh, Archivist, The one Alone is not alone, so he can not be the one Alone, do you see?” The voice was on the edge of his waking mind, it came in spikes and fractals as his brain tried to bring itself back to the land of the living, or not living depending on the angle.
One hand held something warm, the other something cold. The warmth had a heartbeat, the cold felt metallic and hummed a beat all of its own. Both called him.
“Helen now is not the time.”
“It’s never the time, not here anyway, you should know that by now Archivist. Now is not the time because time is never now.”
He felt arms that were impossible wrap around him and lift him, the warmth in his hand slid away from his grip he wanted to chase it, but his body felt as if it were miles away from him now.
“Don’t worry, he won’t go anywhere, the Forsaken is not stupid enough to venture into my hallways, present company an exception, Micheal was fond of your little assistants, something like that lingers in a place like this.”
Soft footsteps echoed in improbable ways.
Somewhere in the echo of his mind, Martin felt the air change as an impossible door opened and the familiar smell of the archives drifted into his conscience, the last thing he remembered before the world went blank again was the heat returning to his hand and the soft familiar smell of the break room couch under his head.
“-somewhere safe”
“Where would we go?”
“As far as possible, the longer you stay here, the worse it will be.” Martin knew that voice, familiar in its authority, it clawed at his mind. The forsaken shifted letting him process the information.
“-sira?” his voice croaked, the warmth in his hand tightened its grip.
“Martin?” That was Jon’s voice. It was close, slowly Martins mind pieced together the information, his fingers pressed up against the warmth. Jon was holding his hand, Jon had followed him into the lonely and dragged him out.
“Wa’s ..appening?” his voice felt feeble to his own ears, he shifted to try and sit up blinking back against the light cast down from the high window of the breakroom. How long had he been out? What had happened? His eyes glanced around the room trying to work out sight and shapes, they were all bright, sharp and harsh after the depths of the forsaken.
He could make out the shape of Basira stood positioned between the sofa and the space that had once held a door, her eyes constantly darting to the destroyed wooden panels and her head craning towards every unfamiliar sound.
“A lot.” She sighed her eyes flicking down to her phone. “We need to move, it’s only a matter of time before this becomes a section thirty-one and the fewer people that are involved the better.”
“What’s the plan,” Jon’s voice was close to Martin’s head he craned to see him now, out of focus still but solid and real. His eyes darted constantly from Martin to Basira, he looked more awake that Martin had seen him in years, a constant buzz of energy seemed to radiate from him.
“I was hoping you might have come up with one by now.” Basira grunted moving forward and leaning down to look Martin in the eye “You back with us Blackwood?”
Martin might not be best friends with Basira, but he knew her well enough to read the concerned look on her face as she studied him.
“I think so.”
“Good, glad to have you back, but in the most affectionate way, get lost… both of you.” a noise in the hallway made her jump. Basira swung round ready for a fight “Both of you get out of here, go to one of your flats and lay low, I’ll take care of this.” she ordered stepping towards the commotion in the hall.
“What is it?” Jon’s voice was strained.
“You can’t just see?” Martin questioned, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet by the shorter man.
“No… I can’t see for… well... Because of you.” Martin didn’t have time to question him as a crashing noise signalled a door in the archives meeting an untimely demise.
He felt Jon pull him towards a door that had not been there a moment before.
“Where to Archivist?”
“My flat, I know you know the way.”
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The last time Martin had been trapped in the corridors of the distortion it had felt like weeks, Micheal enjoyed playing with him and Tim, toying with their realities in a way that Martin had found disorientating at the time. However, after following the path of the one alone, he now found the bright lights of Helen’s domain almost homely if not a little overpowering after the muted colours that had wrapped him deep in their hold.
The twisting shape of Helen leads Jon onwards. Martin gripped his hand tight as he followed, if he dropped it for even a moment he would fall into the grasp of the lonely again in less than a blink, he was sure of it. Helen had been right, he couldn’t feel the forsaken while deep in the corridors of the spiral, but he didn’t trust the distortion, no matter how many times it had helped them in the past. He knew no matter what he would be eternally marked by the loneliness, it was inevitable, few came back from its grasps, he felt different somehow, changed but from what and how he couldn’t explain. Helen turned to look at them as they reached the red door at the end of the corridor. “This is you, Archivist. I can’t protect you outside my corridors, but the lonely should keep you hidden until your detective friend can find you somewhere to hide.”
Jon nodded once at his side reaching out and putting a hand on the door. “ Thank you, Helen,”
“If you need me, just Knock. I’m rather fond of you little Archivist,” Helen’s eyes spun towards Martin now, their eyes almost looking through Martin not quite focused. She nodded once in recognition before disappearing into her impossible corridors.
Martin watched until she was gone before letting Jon lead him through the door.
Jon’s flat was not what Martin had expected, yet it was exactly how he imagined Jon when he thought of him as a whole. Every available space was covered with things. Bookshelves overflowed with dog eared books. Manilla folders scattered the sofa and the coffee table, above the tiny electric fire on a shelf sat a collection of photos and what looked like Jon’s graduation certificate, all framed in matching monochrome frames. The sofa was a faded suede and nestled up to a small dining room table that was barely big enough for one, maybe two at a push, the mix and match chairs had seen better days and one corner was held up with what looked like a wedge of takeaway menus. The room beyond expanded from carpet to lino, signalling the beginning of the area that was supposed to house the kitchen. The one-room seemed to be stuck in time, halfway between unpacking and moved in. He wondered how long Jon had been living out of the packing boxes that piled up on the kitchen counters, probably longer than was good for him. Martin tried not to think back to his barren bedsit and the depressing lack of unpacking he had done himself, a life condensed into seven brown boxes and two black bags, even the furniture didn’t belong to him having come as part of the rental agreement. No wonder Lukas had found him such easy prey.
Jon stepped towards the sofa, finally dropping Martin’s hand for the first time since Helen had carried him through the tunnels. He fussed over the folders, stacking them and piling them in hazardous looking positions on top of the boxes that flanked the room.
“I… I’m sorry about the mess,” Jon said stuttering to a halt when the largest of the piles collapsed to the floor, both sets of eyes watched as the paper hit the generic beige carpet that decked out every rented flat that ever existed, including Martin’s own. It all seemed too much for Jon at that point. He sunk to his knees trying to scoop all the remnants of his pile into something that resembled organisation, his head hung low face hidden by the blanket of his own hair. His shoulders shook.
Somewhere in his mind, Martin registered that Jon was crying, but it was as if he were watching it all through a haze. He wanted to reach out and comfort him but his body wouldn’t respond to his own reasoning, the empty nothingness refused to let him move. The lonely wrapped out its tendrils towards Jon, Martin could feel it crawling towards him like creeping death. He could taste the lonely, it came off Jon in waves, it was tinged with the bitter taste of the beholding, but it still wasn’t enough to make him move no matter how much it called to him. In his hand the cold vibrated His fingers tightening the grip around the sensation, he hadn’t even registered up until this point, the warmth of Jon’s hand in his own had overpowered every other thought and feeling.
His right hand uncurled, in it, he held the unmistakable bosons whistle that until recently had hung around the neck of Peter Lukas. He dropped it as if it suddenly burned white-hot in his palm. It dropped and rolled across the floor, stopping only when it hit the side of Jon’s leg. He still knelt staring at the scattered statements and destroyed piles of research. One scarred hand reached out and wrapped slender fingers around the faded brass and silver whistle.
“Martin?” the whisper broke the spell that he seemed to be under, that, or the fact that he had let go of something so deeply wrapped up in the Forsaken. He stumbled forward, the world seemed to come back in a rush, he could smell the lingering scent of cigarettes in the air, feel the dampness that still hung to his clothes, feel the aches that seemed to pulsate through every muscle and joint, vibrating with a human reaction to the biting cold that had engulfed him for months. He staggered to the sofa, throwing himself into the space that Jon had created gasping for air through the tears that now flowed freely down his face. The world swam before him, and somewhere in the periphery was Jon, forever in his orbit.
“Martin?” his voice was stronger now, red-rimmed eyes looking up at him from the floor, eyes full of worry and fear. Why did breathing seem like the hardest thing in the world, why did every breath feel like it was being fought for through layers of salt and sediment? Why did the world suddenly feel so infinite and at the same time feel smaller than an atom? To close? To real.
He felt the heat burning through the denim that clad his leg, it burned like a nuclear explosion on his skin, he scrambled backwards away from the source of the heat.
Through tears, he watched as Jon pulled his hand back from where he had placed it on his knee in an attempt to comfort.
“Don’t touch me!”
Jon looked hurt, his brown eyes large in the dim light cast from the lamp overhead. The rational part of Martin’s brain tried to tell him it was alright, it was just Jon. However, the part of him that had been overtaken by the Lonely screamed at the danger The Archive was dangerous. The Archive would hurt it given an opportunity, he should run, run back to the gentle nothingness. Everything that had felt so dull before now seemed to scream a crimson warning.
Jon didn’t make a move, holding Martin’s gaze instead.
Jon showed you the way, he cares about you, you aren’t alone. You can trust him.
Once upon a time, the idea of staring into the eyes of Jonathan Sims would have sent butterflies slamming against his ribcage in a kamikaze mission, flustering him beyond any reasonable reaction to such a simple thing, but now… now that gaze grounded him. It burned into his very core.
He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that, Jon kneeling on the floor by his legs and Martin curled in on himself, but the light outside the flat had completely faded by the time Jon finally moved, getting to his feet and heading into the tiny space he called a kitchen.
Martin watched in silence as Jon filled the kettle from the tap before moving over to put it in its cradle, the faint electric buzz filling the silence of the room. Martin took time to look over the man who he had missed constantly for almost a year. Jon was limping slightly, but there were no new visible scars that Martin could see at a glance, but his face was grubby, covered in the same grit and sand that seemed to permeate every inch of Martin’s skin.
He looked tired, behind the inflamed skin around his eyes sat the black bags that seemed to just be a permanent part of his visage ever since taking on the head archivist role. They looked darker than ever. His hair now streaked with white alongside the ever permanent grey, he looked exhausted but he buzzed with an energy that even Martin in his hazy state could feel.
He watched as Jon took two cups from a box and routed around in a cupboard for teabags, watching as he ground himself the way Martin had a million times before. He watched Jon scoop two spoonfuls of sugar into each cup before reaching out for a canister of white on the shelf.
“If you put Coffee Mate in that cup, I’m going back into the fog.” Martin heard himself saying quietly. Jon’s hand paused, he flexed it a few times before dropping it back to the bench and inclining his head so he could see Martin.
“Milk probably has its own ecosystem cultivating, I haven’t been home in a while.”
“It’s fine black.”
Jon nodded once as the kettle boiled, the familiar sound of the boiling water falling into the faded yellow mugs grounded him, the aroma of the cheap tea bags, the type Jon really liked despite the fancy ones that sat in the break room at the institute comforted him in a way.
Soon the tea was pressed into his hand, its warmth so different from the burn that had radiated from Jon’s touch. He wrapped both hands around the chipped porcelain watching as the steam curled up into the cold flat, Jon stood before him debating where to place himself, every available seat bar one where Martin sat still piled high with paperwork. Eventually, he put his tea down on the table and shoved the rest of the papers from the sofa, making room for himself. A rush of warmth filled Martin as he watched the cat-like destruction the smaller man had caused, almost swatting the stacks away, Jon kicked off his shoes and folded himself cross-legged on to the other side of the sofa reaching out and taking hold of his own yellow mug resting it gently on his lap, his eyes staring out from behind the blanket of hair that fell around his face.
Both men held the gaze, soggy, mucky and dishevelled from the fallout of the last twenty-four hours.
"What happened?” Jon asked gently, Martin could tell he was trying to keep the compulsion out of his voice as much as he could, but the air still buzzed heavily with the static that seemed to radiate from him, however, the beholding did not rip the answer from Martin’s lips when it was given it was given of his own free will.
He took a sip from the black tea, it tasted bitter on his tongue after months of everything tasting dull and distant, but his mouth was dry and he needed something familiar. He barely recognised his own voice when the words found their way into the air between them.
“I was supposed to kill Jonah… take his place in the panopticon, it was all part of some scheme of Peter’s to find out about the extinction.” he paused taking another sip to soothe his voice. “When I wouldn’t do it, well Elias seemed ...happy? Peter said something about a bet? Next thing I know I've been cast into the forsaken and well… you know the rest.”
“Elias… Jonah...he said something about a bet… something about me being the prize?” Jon worried at his lip, his eyes cast down towards the cooling tea in his lap.
“Can’t you just … Know?”
“I... I can’t see as clear when I’m around you, you-”
“-oh?”
Jon met his eye again “The static around you dampens the noise, it’s been constant ever since...well since I came back.”
“So… you can’t” he waved his hand in the general area around his head, Jon shook his in answer. “Well, at least that means Elias… or Jonah or whatever isn’t going to be able to find us either.”
The silence settled in again then, both unsure what to say both studying each other in quiet reverence and for a time Martin was happy just to be here.
The buzz of the intercom woke him. He wasn’t sure where he was when the world first came into focus, sights and smells felt strange and he could still feel that aching down to his bones, as if flu had set in and taken it’s hold on every inch of his body. He ached down to his toes as his body tried to fight back against the change. He felt solid. When had been the last time he felt whole? Long before Jon had come out of a coma, maybe long before the archives. Now he felt as if his existence was pulling itself back together even if his entire body hated him but as he catalogued the aches he was thankful for each and every one.
The hazy half light cast from the lamp by the sofa illuminated the sharp angles and tiered visage of Jon as he uncurled himself from his own slumber, his eyes darted to the table glancing at the phone that showed a litany of missed calls. He picked it from the toppling pile of books, glancing at it before sliding it into his pocket. The other item found its way back into Martin’s hand as Jon passed him on the way to the door. “Basira,” Jon said in a way of explanation indicating the door.
The whistle felt cool to the touch but didn’t burn like ice as it had before, he glanced over it turning it in his palm looking at the dents and rivets left by years of use. He tucked it into his shirt pocket, he didn’t feel like thinking about it just now, how many people had been lost in the fog to its call. He should destroy it, but the part of him that had been well and truly on the way to becoming an avatar of the lonely wouldn't let him, he knew that down to his aching bones. But for now, the less explaining the better. The thought of having to speak to anyone, even Jon seemed to be a herculean task. However as he watched Jon speak into the intercom, voice heavy with sleep as he invited Basira up with the press of a buzzer, he knew he wanted to tell him everything and he would in time. If they were given the luxury of such a thing.
Basira came bearing gifts. The sort that are found in the twenty-four-hour Tesco at three in the morning. Three paper cups of vending machine coffee, three bars of dairy milk and a box of doughnuts.
“Eat.” she ordered throwing the donuts onto the wobbly dining table and glaring at Jon.
“I don’t…”
“It’s sugar for the shock. Humour me.” she glared and Jon did as he was told picking up a doughnut and shoving it in his mouth. Martin found a bag thrust into his hand, “ I raided your offices, I grabbed what I could before sectioned got into things, managed to grab a handful of statements, and a few of your personal things.” the bag in his hand was familiar. It had been stuffed in the archives back when he was still worried about things like worms, it felt like a lifetime ago now. “I’ll try and get your stuff from your flat… but I get the feeling that might not be for a while yet.”
“Any signs of Elias?” Jon asked quietly.
“None, he’s probably hiding, too many ways to get in and out of the institute if you know the tunnels.”
A gentle rage began to bubble in Martins ribcage. Jonah Magnus. All of this was his fault.“He...Peter had a Litner...it controlled the tunnels...if he has that you won’t ever find him.”
Basira shook her head. “It’s only a matter of time before he shows his face again, and when he does…” she trailed off biting back the anger in her voice. “Anyway… I need to talk to Martin...Alone.” she inclined her head at Jon nodding in the direction of the bedroom. Martin felt himself lean towards Jon almost automatically. Basira read the expression on his face as if he had shouted it at the top of his lungs, he was scared to let Jon out of his sight and with the look on Jon’s face he wasn’t too happy about it either.
“It’s only for a moment, I Just… well Jon the less you know the better when it comes to keeping you hidden. Like you said, Martin blocks a bit of beholding, we might as well use it to your advantage.”
“You have a plan?”
“I have a safe house. Well, Daisy has a safe house. well, she has many but this one… you both should be able to lie low there, at least until I come up with a better plan.” Basira looked exhausted, was the adrenaline finally fading?
“Daisy?” Martin asked quietly Basira shook her head once, Martin had a sinking feeling that the loud sounds in the archive before they had disappeared into Helen’s hallways had been that of the hunt, the gaunt look that shadowed the woman’s face spoke louder than any words. Jon simply walked up to Basira grasping her shoulder. An understated action but it spoke volumes as the two of them locked eyes briefly, a knowing look passed between the two. Martin was suddenly acutely aware of the amount of time he had been away from the archives, how far he had pushed himself away from the few people who actually cared a damn about him. He felt the anger churning again somewhere in the pit of his chest, it felt strange to feel anything after months of trying not to.
Jon excused himself into his bedroom, grabbing the duffle bag from beside the door as he did so, telling them he was going to pack. Basira waited until Jon started opening draws and shuffling around in his room before she held out a folded bit of paper to Martin.
“What will we do for money? Won’t we leave a trail?”
“Probably, but sectioned aren't going to chase after you, not over a border, that’s someone else’s worry. I took the liberty of cloning your cards, I’ll use them here in a few places to throw off the scent.” Basira handed him his wallet, he hadn’t even realised it was missing. “Take the biggest amount you can out somewhere near Euston, then drive… there's an old red Corsa around the side of Jon’s flat, Gumtree is a godsend…” Basira handed him a car key and a copper door key hanging on a tartan fob. “Drive to Carlisle, then you can look at the address. The less Elias… or Jonah... or whatever knows the better, we might as well get something out of your freaky new powers.” There was no venom in her words, Basira was worried for them and Martin appreciated it. “Just ...look after each other yeah?” The, I can’t lose anyone else , remained unsaid .
Martin nodded sliding the keys into his pocket and folding the paper up once more he slid it into the note section of his wallet.
“Thank you.”
Basira nodded once, “As soon as it is safe I will forward you on some more statements for Jon.” Martin felt the heat of her gaze on him as he pushed his wallet back in his pocket. “Do you need anything? “ she asked carefully. He could feel the worry behind it, how far had Martin fallen ? Was he a full avatar for the lonely? Did he need to feed in the same way that Jon did? He knew the questions because they were the same ones that had been running through his mind for weeks, if not months, he just wished he had an answer.
“I think I’m fine?” he ventured. “At least, I need to eat food? Real food, not trauma? At least I don’t think I do?” the weight of that statement dug into his chest. He tried to laugh it off but he knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, let alone himself.
Basira seemed to understand even if she wouldn’t hold his gaze, as if she was struggling to keep him in focus. Martin realised then that the fog was still gripping him, he forced himself to be seen. Basira focused on him now, her long hair framing her face, dark eyes trying to understand the sudden sharpness of Martin.
“Sorry, it’s hard to stay present sometimes.”
“I understand but try to for all of us.” she shuffled around in her bag again pulling out a familiar-looking phone and pressing it into martins hand wrapping her own hands around his briefly. He tried his hardest not to flinch but failed, to her credit Basira didn’t look offended.
“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling his hand away and shoving his phone into his pocket.
“I charged it, put mine and Daisy’s burner phones in it, just to be safe…” she chuckled. “Don’t look so worried your password wasn’t exactly hard to work out.” Martin felt the colour rise in his cheeks. “listen, just keep him safe. I’ll worry about the hunters and Elias… or Magnus. Just check in with me..”
Martin looked at her now, Basira very rarely let her guard down, but now she looked scared, open… so much worse than in the days after the Unknowing when the two of them had been left in that awful limbo between morning and hope.
“Are you going to be ok?”
Basira shrugged, “I’ll try my best to be, I'm still tied to the institute, not like I can go anywhere far, so is Daisy. If Tim couldn’t escape then…” she tipped her head back then, staring at the crack in the ceiling. “I’ll try and lay low, try and blend in. I can look after myself. But you and Jon… you need each other.”
Jon chose that moment to rejoin them. He had changed into a jumper and jeans and dragged his hair back into a messy bun, he dropped the duffle bag next to the front door and looked at them expectantly.
“So we have a plan?”