Work Text:
To you, there were two Jons.
The first Jon was the Jon that stayed in his office all day. He'd take a million cups of tea a day if you gave it to him, but you'd be lucky to get an acknowledging grumble out of him, never mind a "thanks." He was overworked and stressed and seemed to take it all out on you. He'd scream and shout and call you useless in the exact same way your mother used to, their permanent scowls near identical. You'd take it for as long as you could before you felt tears brim at your eyes or until Tim and Sasha put Jon back in his place. This Jon made you feel small. He caught on to any mistakes made and made sure you knew what you've done wrong. Tim and Sasha insist that he wasn't like this before, which doesn't help in the slightest.
The second Jon was the Jon that apologized for his outbursts and thanked you for the tea. He spoke gently and, if you said the right thing, he might just smile. He was the Jon that fell asleep at his desk and leaned against you as you directed him to the cot, still dreaming as he slowly moved. He was the Jon that brought you extra blankets at the peak of winter and silently handed you Tupperware of home cooked meals. He was the Jon that kept thick woolly cardigans in his office for those especially cold days and might even lend you one if he noticed you shivering. He was softer and warmer, he didn't yell as much and actually appreciated the work you did.
After Jon confronted you about his CV, the first Jon died. It was a quiet death, drowned in the newly formed trust between you both. From this death, a new Jon arose.
The third Jon was the Jon that tugged on your sleeve to get your attention rather than call your name. He sat closer to you and smiled so much more, even though it fades just as quickly as it appears. He was the Jon that, rather than staying in the Archives, offered to let you sleep in his flat. (His sofa was worse than the cot but he felt immeasurably safer knowing Jon was just a room away.) He went out for drinks with you and your co-workers and he actually had a good time. He smiled and laughed and told jokes of his own. He was the Jon that you'd beg to show you old videos of his college band and he'd blush at how "unprofessional" it all is, when really, you're more fixated on his voice and his care-free look.
And then you found Jurgen Leitner, dead in Jon's office. Now the only Jon that was left was broken and cold. He filled your head with static and forced your mouth to form sounds against your will. You weren't sure what way to feel about it at first, but the way you saw his face drop every single time he accidentally did it, you stopped putting the blame on him. He was the Jon that went missing for weeks on end, if you were lucky enough he might just tell whether or not he left by his own choice. During late nights at work, you'd walk past his office to hear him cry to himself, grieving his humanity that was dying a slow and painful death, along with the Jon's you'd known before.
And then Jon really died and the world lost it's colour. Jon had taken the greens, Tim had taken the yellows, he didn't know Daisy well but reds never seemed as bright without her around. Your mother had taken blue away when she died too, but you had never been fond of it in the first place. You cried and cried and cried until you were left gasping for breath, thick fog choking you. You began to wonder if Jon, Tim, Daisy and Mum had taken the colours with them or if Peter just overpowered them with grey. You wonder what Sasha had taken with her, and you start to cry again when you struggle to remember her face.
When Jon came back, he brought a brand new Jon with him, only this one wasn't Jon. This was The Archivist. The Archivist begged you to leave with him. He'd only said it directly to you once, but you could hear it in his voice when he spoke. You purposely avoided looking into his eyes. His presence filled your vision with green, with bright fields and lush forests. You'd do anything to lay in the grass and feel it against the palms of your hands but the feeling left a pain in your chest and the grey fog was more gentle. His skin, once smooth and perfect, was marked and scarred. He was lucky with some, the worm scars had healed particularly well, however his hand would always looked mangled and his neck would never be rid of the mark left by Daisy's knife. You didn't like The Archivist. You just wanted him to leave you alone.
In Scotland, things are different. The Archivist speaks gently to you. He wears his cardigans every day and cooks for you just like he did all those years ago. Not one cup of tea goes unthanked and every time he leans against you on the sofa you feel blessed. He still snaps at you when he's stressed and you still push him away on bad days. He thinks about how he treated you and cries, even though he's been long forgiven. He always forgives you when you act out but he finds it very hard to understand why you forgive him when he acts out. He smiles more and sings all his old songs for you, never thinking about being "unprofessional." Instead of sleeping on the horrible old sofa, you share a bed with him and you hold each other until the sun peeks up over the moors and floods the room with golden light.
As you cup his face in your hands he smiles sleepily. He sighs and melts into your touch. As you study his face, you realize that The Archivist never was, and every iteration of Jon is still alive in all their glory. You love each and every last one.