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Jon is walking down a familiar hill and his eyes are deliberately closed. The ground is making faint squishing noises under his shoes, his pace is steady and sure. He’s walked this path enough times by now, so he doesn't really need to see. The presence from above tries to press on his shoulders even harder, and it’s tug on his eyelids becomes a bit more belligerent. Even in his dreams, he's stubborn as hell. He doesn't want to see this. He’ll try to put it off for as long as possible.
It is not the oppressive force above his head that manages to rip Jon's eyes open, but instead a spike of adrenaline as he trips over a headstone. He's here. He doesn't want to be here. He takes a breath in and out through his mouth, trying to soothe himself. The air here is too cold and too thick.
The screaming and crying will start any second now.
He lets himself look about the field for a moment. Usually people consider fog-muted colors to be calming. But this particular scene is mocking and cruel. Panic (as well as some stomach acid) continues to build in Jon's throat.
She must know that he arrived, she begins to wail, muffled and stifled. She might be saying words, begging him to get her out of there. So, he tries. But it doesn't work, it never works.
He's on his knees, fingers tangling through sedges and weeds. He rips at the wet dirt that leaves his fingertips raw and pruned. The earth just seems to relentlessly replace itself, just like it usually does. The presence in the sky is coming down on his body full force, it’s slowing his movements. As if his movements were doing much in the first place.
He's not sure if he can take this anymore. It’s been happening almost every night, lately. He stumbles to his feet, his chest is heaving.
He throws his head back and screams, "Is there anybody out there?!"
There is never anyone in this dream except for Naomi and himself. But there is something in the sky. He refuses to look directly at it.
He knows that he’s being watched, but he’s never felt so alone in his life.
"I need help," he whispers to no one.
Naomi is still howling underneath him. He wants to clench his eyes shut, maybe even press his muddy palms over his ears too, but he's not allowed.
He jumps a few inches into the air with surprise when he hears a voice that isn't Naomi's, “Hello?” It’s echoey and distant, but it’s definitely human.
This human doesn't sound like they're underground at all. Well, this is a new development. Jon runs his hands wildly through his hair, completely in disbelief, and considers his next move.
Hopefully making contact isn't a mistake. "Yes! Hello! Can you hear me? Where are you?"
The voice responds again, "Hello?" It sounds confused and exhausted and a bit familiar. And very, very, far away.
Jon picks a direction that feels right and runs. He hollers for the person every few seconds, but they're no longer responding. The presence above isn’t as heavy as before, he realizes this with both confusion and relief. A minute passes and the squishy sounds under his feet are no more. He looks down and sees firm dirt instead of grass. A few steps later, it looks more like dark sand.
He continues on despite the silence, he refuses to give up on an opportunity to get some answers. The mist has him completely surrounded, he can’t see anything more than a few feet ahead of him. He strains his ears and he thinks he can hear waves, but still nothing from the mystery person. He doesn't stop trying to shout for them. He might not be able to hear them anymore, but he can feel them. He’s going the right way.
Finally, a human figure comes into view and Jon swallows down his fear. “H-hey! Can you hear me?”
The figure abruptly turns towards Jon's voice.
Martin's eyes widen when he sees Jon, his eyebrows furrowing. He's wearing red flannel pyjama bottoms and a shirt that's seen better days. He looks very cold and very lost, and the tear tracks on his cheeks seem to be tinged with red.
*
Jon wakes up with a sharp inhale through his nose. Physical sensation kicks in all at once, and he's sore all over. His left foot is asleep and his right foot is on it's way to it, prickling and tingling. He needs to piss. His neck and back complain as he sits up straight and stretches. He takes his glasses off, knowing that the indentations on the sides of his nose must be deep. He really needs to stop falling asleep like this.
He's still jittery and raw from the nightmare, and he turns his head towards the document storage room. He tries to imagine Martin’s sleeping form on the cot in there, safe and sound. And certainly not lost in some foggy hell dimension. The mental image makes him feel a bit better.
Jon flinches and nearly jumps out of his chair when the lights in the document storage room turn on. Hmm. Jon checks the time on his phone. 2:37 a.m. Perhaps Martin had a bad dream, too.
The door opens, and Jon quickly turns back around, putting his head and arms on the desk. He closes his eyes. Jon asks himself why he decided to feign sleeping, and the answer is a bit foolish. Martin might find it odd for him to be sitting awake at his desk in the dark, with the laptop clearly in sleep mode.
He hears Martin's footsteps pause near Jon's desk. Jon tries to keep his breathing steady and inconspicuous.
Martin's voice is high and soft. "Jon?"
"Mmm?" he responds, letting his body uncurl off the desk again. He makes eye contact with his assistant, eyes bleary.
It’s ridiculously dark even with the storage room light pooling into the main area, Martin must have turned Jon's desk lamp and the overhead lights off some time after Jon passed out.
"You should really sleep on your mattress thing instead. You're going to hurt your spine."
Jon nods in agreeance, trying to keep his expression from seeming too grumpy. Even with the limited light, Jon can tell there is something off in Martin's eyes. "Are you alright?"
"Um, well, I'm - uh, not sleeping too good, erm, too well. I'm going to get some water." He shifts his weight from one foot to another, the fire extinguisher in his hand sways a bit. "Do you need anything?"
Jon's belly flips at the question. This particular sensation has been occurring often these days and he’s not sure why. "No, uh. No, I'm fine."
Martin nods once, walks towards the stairs, and Jon presses his face into his hands. Martin is wearing red flannel and a faded T-shirt tonight.
His thoughts are going all over the place and he feels a headache coming on, he's too tired for this. He tries to recall if he's seen Martin in those trousers before. He doesn't think he has.
Surely Martin didn’t have a nightmare about a foggy hell dimension just now, right? Jon wants to ask him, but won’t.
Jon removes his belt and shoes. He reaches for the roll-up mattress and a throw blanket from the cabinet and places them on the floor just behind his chair. He fantasizes of collapsing there immediately and sleeping soundly for two days straight. But as tired as he is, he’s terrified to lay his head down at all.
His bladder’s nagging is becoming more insistent, so he grabs a fire extinguisher and heads for the loo.
*
Jon washes his hands with cold water and it makes him feel a bit better, so he splashes some onto his face as well. This action reminds him that he's parched, so he cups his hands and drinks a bit. Jon wonders when the last time he drank water was.
He doesn't really want to look at his reflection, but he does anyway. He should shave later and he tries not to have any more opinions about his face for the moment. He notices some sand in his eyes and he digs it out. Then he washes his hands again.
A worm falls into the sink, presumably from the ceiling. He sort of snarls at the thing as he smushes it against the porcelain with the bottom of the extinguisher, and rinses the carcass down the drain. Jon shakes through his hair with his fingers, working out a tangle.
He pushes open the door with the ball of his foot just in time to see Martin coming down the hallway, who has his fire extinguisher tucked in his armpit and a paper cup of water in each hand. Jon's belly feels like it has worms in it. Or, maybe not worms exactly.
Jon half-jogs down the hall so he can pass Martin, and he opens the door to the archives for him.
Martin murmurs his appreciation, it's quiet, but it's sincere. Jon avoids his attempt at eye contact.
Jon sets the extinguisher next to his mattress on the floor with a huff. “There’s a... a suspicious lack of worms tonight.”
Martin places one of the water cups on Jon’s desk with a hum.
“Thank you, Martin.”
Martin smiles at him but it doesn't have the same light behind it as usual. "I'm going to try to sleep again, I guess. You should, too." Martin is walking towards the storage room, and then stops, apparently waiting for some sort of response.
Jon doesn't bother lying, he’s too exhausted and he's never been good at it anyway. "Actually, I was going to, um, look through some statements for a bit. Don't think I could go back to sleep."
Martin's expression falls. "I'm sorry I woke you!" His words are coming out too fast, "I just know how sore you get when you sleep hunched over your desk all night and I-"
"Hey, hey. It's alright. You didn't wake me up."
Martin raises an eyebrow in genuine confusion, and Jon remembers that he was pretending to be asleep before. Stupid. Idiot.
"I had a bad dream," Jon finishes lamely. He wants to plop down on the floor like a distraught, tearful child and spill his guts. Martin, I had a bad dream and I keep having it almost every single night. I can't help the notion that this dream is my fault and that someone else is suffering because of me. And to make matters worse, I could be giving nightmares to you, too? I feel disconcerted and I’m a coward and I don’t want to go back to sleep. Honestly, I’d be quite happy to never need sleep again. But he just stares at the floor, keeping Martin’s face in his peripheral vision.
At least Martin doesn't look guilty and disheartened anymore. His expression is now just gentle concern and a touch of... something else that Jon can’t put a finger on.
They just stand there, facing each other, and Jon can't tell if it's awkward or not.
Martin seems to be considering something, and he breaks the silence first. "Do you-" he takes a fitful breath, "do you ever listen to podcasts?"
Jon isn’t sure what he was expecting Martin to say, but it definitely wasn't that. "Uh, no. No, not really, no. My, uh, ex runs one and I sometimes listen just to support it. But I- I'm more of a, uh, reader." Jon notices that Martin's eyes went a bit wide. "And I watch documentaries sometimes," he hurriedly adds. Jon wonders if he always stammers this much while talking to Martin, or if he really is just too weary tonight to make sense.
"Well," Martin says, "I have a recommendation. Whenever I can't sleep, I listen to an episode or two of, ah-" Martin takes Jon's raised eyebrows as permission to keep talking. "Have you ever heard of Welcome to Night Vale?"
Jon racks his brain and turns up nothing. Must be American. "What's it about?"
"Well, it's this, hmm, what's the best way to describe it? It's kind of like a supernatural-"
"Ah, I don't think I'm in the mood for horror at the moment-"
"Oh! Yes! Of course. Well, it's not really horror? It's more so, uh, weird surreal stuff.” Martin is gesticulating and Jon’s eyes follow every movement. “But it's not stressful at all, at least not in my opinion. It can actually be quite funny at times. And strangely... poetic. The guy who narrates it, he has a very... calming voice. It helps when I'm feeling spooked out or, ah, lonely, I guess."
Jon nods slowly, once. Then he nods again with a bit more fervor.
"Great!" Martin's voice sounds surprised and almost excited, and gives Jon one of those Martin smiles. Eyes squinty, dimples cutting through his soft cheeks. "I'll set an episode up, I have a little speaker thing, I think it'll do the trick for a situation such as... this. You should, ah, change into some more comfortable clothes." He turns and walks into the document storage room, but not before pointing emphatically at the cup of water on Jon's desk. His eyes say drink that.
“Right,” Jon mumbles.
*
About two minutes later, Jon is standing next to his desk in black trackies and a white sleeveless undershirt. He's only got about a fourth of the cup left to go. He turns the desk lamp on, and as he looks down at his own body, he sighs. He never imagined he would be around a coworker in sleep clothes, it seems a bit too intimate for his comfort level. His stomach churns with apprehension and he mentally searches for the off switch. He tries to pick the feeling apart, thinking it might help. Was he worried that Martin would lose respect for him without professional attire? Or was he ashamed of how he looked? Maybe it was a bit of both.
Wearing comfortable clothes to sleep is normal. It's human. He doesn’t think any less of Martin for sauntering around the Institute in pyjamas in the middle of the night. Well, the pants incident a few weeks ago was a bit jarring, but… He decides to put that thought away.
Jon hears a yelp and then a KRRRSH. Instinct tells him to run over to help, but experience tells him that Martin knows how to handle a few worms.
Jon does respect Martin, more than he ever expected to, really. He's quite observant. Martin's work ethic seems to be improving these days, or maybe Jon just doesn't mind the quirks and slip ups so much anymore. Trying to keep someone safe from worms for over a month can do funny things to the brain, he supposes.
Being in sleepwear around each other should not affect their workplace dynamic, especially considering the unique situation they’re in. But Martin seems to be avoiding laying eyes on him ever since he changed, so the belly churning continues.
It’s freezing in here, his nipples are perking up against the thin cotton of his shirt. He crosses his bare arms over his chest, the hair on his forearms is sticking up from the gooseflesh. He wishes he had a jumper left that didn't reek of sweat.
Martin is messing with the switch panel next to the foyer door, apparently trying to turn off all the lights except for the ones over the stairs. He’s been working in this department for several months and still doesn't have the switches memorized, something that might have annoyed Jon once upon a time, but it doesn’t now.
The light immediately over Jon's head comes on for a split second, blinding him a bit, and he groans.
Martin stutters apologies as he finally hits the correct switch and heads back over to Jon’s vicinity. They opt to leave Jon's desk lamp on as well, Martin mumbles something about good mood lighting.
Without permission or preamble, Martin bends down and grabs an edge of Jon’s foam mattress, and starts dragging it towards the document storage room. Jon opens his mouth to protest or question, anything, but words aren’t working out for him very well.
Martin parks the mattress just outside of the storage room doorway, turning it so it’s parallel with Martin’s (Jon’s) cot. Jon can’t tell if he’s relieved or disappointed that Martin didn’t place the mattress inside of the room.
Jon downs the last sip of water and drops the cup into the bin, grabbing the fire extinguisher while he’s still bent over.
“Martin, I actually think it's better to keep the door closed-”
“But we won’t be able to listen together if it’s shut-”
“Right, but the worms, they- they might try to take advantage of this situation, if you're asleep and the door's open, then-”
“Well, we’ll be right next to each other all night, and we’re both quite armed.” Martin brandishes an extinguisher with his left hand and something smaller and… metal perhaps, with his right.
Jon’s lack of words might suggest a white flag, but his worried scowl apparently speaks volumes.
“You know what,” Martin says, voice quiet and resolute, “We’re going to get through this night just fine.”
Jon lets himself meet Martin’s eyes because it feels safe.
“Any worms that try to sneak up on us in our sleep will get… absolutely pulverized.” Hearing that word come out of Martin’s mouth has Jon exhaling through his nose forcefully. It's a pitiful excuse of a laugh, but Martin joins him with it. “Really though, we’re gonna listen to this person with a very relaxing voice and we’re going to fall asleep without any sort of issue." He's waving his hands around again, "And we’re going to stay asleep and we won’t have a single unpleasant dream. And it’s bloody Friday night so we are going to sleep in until... 10 in the morning if we want to! We’re going to feel a lot better when we wake up.” Martin finishes with a meek grin.
Jon had never before experienced a pep talk about sleeping. It worked.
Without saying a word, Jon shakes out his blanket (checking for worms or spiders) and curls into a fetal position on the foam mattress.
Martin seems quietly pleased, and walks over to the lamp by the cot. With his chest next to the direct light, Jon can finally read the faded font. Some Elton John tour, it seems.
Jon bites back a smile as a few memories flash behind his eyes: Martin getting written up back in 2014 because he touched the rotary phone in artifact storage despite Sonja’s deterrence, Martin’s delighted grin when seeing Jon’s tape recorder for the first time, Martin laughing as Tim and Sasha pose for the Polaroid, Martin slouching against his desk as he wrote a letter of some sort by hand. He can imagine Martin meandering thoughtfully through some charity shop, face lighting up as he saw the well-loved grey shirt that must have been printed before he was even born.
Martin flicks off the light, which snaps Jon out of it.
Then, Martin hits play on the episode and crawls onto the cot.
*
“This Traveler is said to have a foreign face and a handsome, but terrible, beard.” Martin lets out a soft sound, somewhere between a laugh and a hum.
The next ten or so minutes are blissfully calm. Jon doesn’t understand what the American man with the relaxing voice is talking about, but he supposes that is the point.
The worms are leaving them alone, too, he notes with a contented sigh. Jon feels himself slowly teetering towards sleep, and that doesn’t scare him.
“I’m sitting at my desk; feet planted on old, thinning carpet – but in my mind, I am anywhere but. I am above, in the sky above…”
Martin’s breathing is steady and slow, he must be almost asleep. But Jon feels far from alone.
“...all still so unreachably distant…”
Jon unclenches his jaw and pulls the blanket closer to his chin.
“Now, I merely look from the vantage point of my own imagination…”
Even the simple melody in the background is soothing. Good idea, Martin.
“And for now, existence is enough. Stay tuned next for an exact word-for-word repeat of this broadcast, that will seem to you imperceptibly but unshakably different… although you will never be able to explain why.”
Martin’s muffled laugh is the last thing Jon hears before he’s finally taken under.
They sleep for the next six hours, and they do not dream.