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It was an odd impulse, in the midst of all the chaos and blood, to pick up the thick book that fell from Jared Hopworth’s pocket when Melanie tackled him in a whirlwind of anger and violence. He probably should have interrogated its source, given the number of statements they had in the Archives about evil books. Martin followed it anyway, reasoning that if the book was what he thought it was, it might weaken their opponent enough to give them the edge, and if it wasn’t there was no harm done. Probably. He tucked it into the large front pocket of his jumper and continued smacking any weird fleshy constructs that got too close with a long-dead plant’s heavy ceramic pot.
Afterward, when Hopworth had been swallowed into Helen’s corridors and Martin was back in his own flat, desperate to cleanse himself of unnameable grime, he was reminded of its presence when it thudded to the ground as he pulled his jumper over his head. He considered examining it then, but the lure of the shower was too strong.
When he eventually did get around to looking at it, it was with a little thrill- of excitement? Nerves?- that he saw his suspicions had been correct. The Boneturner’s Tale. He didn’t know if Hopworth had needed it to perform his work, or if he had just kept it with him like a talisman, but whatever the answer, it was Martin’s now.
He could have destroyed it. It was what Jon would have done, the moment he realized it was a Leitner. But Jon wasn’t there, was he?
It was with Jon in mind Martin performed his first cautious experiments with the book. It was always in the back of his mind, that intoxicating idea that the Flesh might be able to set a resting heart back to pumping, make the lungs expand and blood flow, bring Jon back to them (to Martin) but he wouldn’t- couldn’t- try without knowing more about it. If things went poorly, better the only victim be the cage of rats he’d purchased for the purpose. He figured it wasn’t too much of a loss, even to the rats, since otherwise they would have gone on to become live food for pet snakes. More noble to die in the pursuit of science (if anything involving a Leitner could be properly termed science) than eaten alive in a glass box.
He was alarmed at his first halting experiments, how good it felt to be able to shape another being to his will. People ignored him, they contradicted him, they scolded him, and sometimes if he was very lucky they were fooled by him like Elias, but no one ever did exactly as Martin wanted, as soon as he wanted it. With the book’s instruction, the rats did.
It became rapidly apparent that if he wanted to try and wake Jon, he would need to practice on something more than rats. He knew, every time he slipped into the seedier areas of London and found someone on their own, someone who probably wouldn’t be missed if things went poorly and who didn’t have the resources to hunt him down if they went well, that it was unethical, evil even, but… it was for Jon. If Jon would be alright at the end of it all, Martin would do anything, compromise anything.
He ended up curled in the visitor’s chair sobbing, the first time he felt ready to reach into Jon’s chest and gently, oh so gently, try to coax his heart into beating… and failed. It was lucky the doctors and nurses had long since opted to avoid their strangest patient, and any visitors, as much as possible.
He went out again, practiced more, sure that if he knew enough, if he could only get it right Jon would come back to him. He stopped counting his experiments, remembering them only for the lessons he learned. It was all for Jon, if he could just fix Jon he could stop and never think about The Boneturner’s Tale or the feeling of obedient flesh under his hands again.
He stopped trying to revive after his third failure. He didn’t know what damage he might be doing by trying over and over like that, careful as he was. If Jon woke up, it wouldn’t be because of Martin. He hid the book away and tried to forget about it. Better to go back to trying to wake him with just his voice and whatever anecdotes he could dredge up.
He nearly pulled it out again, when he got word his mother was dying- not just sick, as she had been for as long as he could remember, but actively dying with only days to live. He ended up leaving it; even if it could keep her here, she had never appreciated any of Martin’s normal efforts, so he doubted she would appreciate the introduction of supernatural ones. At her funeral, he didn’t even feel like a bad son for it.
-
Jon didn’t note the ache in his chest as anything special, when he woke up. It didn’t stand out against the other feelings of a body forced into movement, into living, for the first time in half a year. None of the doctors drew attention to it, either, so he assumed it, too, would fade in time.
-
It took everything Martin had to behave normally when Jon came back. He doubted the other man would appreciate the effusive celebrations of his recovery that Martin felt in his heart, so he kept them there. Besides, they wouldn’t fit in the cold, brusque atmosphere the Archives had developed.
They’d all moved into the tunnels, by the time Jon was back, and he followed their lead, lacking anywhere else to go or a solution to the looming threats that had driven his assistants underground. They were quite spaced out, clutching at whatever shreds of privacy they could get, but it still sent excitement thrilling through the part of Martin that was still pathetically in love with his boss to think that they were, technically, living together. Not in the way he’d like, but technically. When he lay awake at night, he thought of pushing his cot up close to Jon’s and pulling the smaller man close, keeping him protected in his arms. Cushioning Jon’s bony elbows and sharp angles in his own more ample figure, everything soft and safe. They were silly fantasies, but he couldn’t make himself give them up.
Martin didn’t realize how little they’d been seeing of Basira until Jon was back to point it out. She’d been an itinerant presence ever since the Unknowing, always off on some lead from Elias (Martin doubted their veracity, and the wisdom of visiting him at all, but he didn’t want to interfere with her grieving) but at some point those errands had expanded to include Peter Lukas, and some time after the Flesh attack, they’d stopped seeing her at all, and she’d officially become his assistant. Martin hoped she knew what she was doing, whatever it was.
He mostly cared about her absence because he suspected Jon would prefer Basira to bounce ideas off of- or at least prefer to have her in addition to Martin. But with Basira gone and Melanie constantly on the edge of violence, most of his thoughts and theories ended up being confided to Martin. He reminded himself that it wasn’t because Jon liked him better, just out of convenience. His face lit up when Martin brought him tea because he was lonely and longing for any friendly presence, not because of Martin himself.
It made Martin boil, how everyone else rejected and avoided Jon. None of it had been his fault, not Tim, not Daisy, not the rest of them being trapped, not even whatever was happening to Jon himself! It wasn’t fair, that they took it all out on him when they knew whose fault it was! In his worst moments, he thought of the book, and the easy obedience of meat molding under his hands. But even if he were willing to use it on his coworkers, it wasn’t the kind of problem that could be fixed that way. His best option remained fruitless emails to Basira and precarious pleading with Melanie.
He thought of the book again when Jon realized just what was making Melanie so hostile. He’d brought it with him when he moved out of his flat, tucked it away in a corner of the tunnels where no one else would find it, but where it would stay available if he needed it. It provided the perfect solution to the Melanie problem, if he just told Jon about it.
He couldn’t bring himself to tell Jon. It was probably a bad sign, a sign that either Martin himself was too far gone or that the book wanted to remain a secret, but he didn’t pay it much attention, instead diverting his energy to helping Jon gather the supplies for impromptu surgery.
He could have vomited, when their efforts came to a (perhaps predictable) disastrous end. He’d been so caught up in fretting over the book and its theoretical hold on him, convinced himself there was some moral authority in opting not to take the easy way out, and look at where that had gotten Jon. Even if the scalpel wound healed faster than it would for a normal person, it still scarred.
Martin wondered sometimes, if he pulled the book out and used it on Jon, would he be able to smooth the scars away? Or would they remain stubbornly printed on his flesh? He comforted himself with the thought that, even if they were reminders of terrible memories, the scars did make Jon look dreadfully dashing.
He kept his opinion of Jon’s scars to himself, just as he kept it to himself how attractive he found it when Jon forced Breekon out of the Archive, unraveling at the edges, with nothing but his voice.
Basira made a reappearance alongside the coffin, frantic for answers and callous to everyone and everything around her. Martin was sympathetic, since he certainly wasn’t at his best himself when Jon was in his coma and Daisy seemed to nearly as important to Basira as Jon was to him, but his sympathy ended when she turned her ire and anxiety on Jon. No amount of grief could justify the things she said, about how he’d abandoned them and anything human and genuinely “Jonathan Sims” had died in the explosion, that whatever had woken up in his place couldn’t be trusted, probably more danger than help.
He had managed to eject her from the room and make his best effort at comforting Jon, at making him see that they were all lies, but that night he entertained vivid scenarios where Basira’s mouth was sealed shut, locking her sharp tongue away where it couldn’t hurt anyone.
-
Jon knew what he needed to do as soon as Basira made her reappearance in the Archives. She wasn’t there long, and Martin forced her out and rattled about how she didn’t mean what she had said, none of it was true, but Jon ignored them both. It was nothing he hadn’t already told himself.
What mattered was that Basira was obviously isolating herself at least partially because of Daisy. He assumed Lukas had promised her answers or a rescue or even just an end to the pain of grief. It didn’t matter, because if he got Daisy back that leverage would be gone.
They needed Basira, more than they needed Jon. All Jon could provide were random scraps of information at unreliable times and another monster to worry about. Basira was more practical, further seeing than Martin was, and if she had Daisy back she wouldn’t be blinded by emotion the way Melanie was. If he could get Basira back in the Archives, she could protect the others where he couldn’t. In light of that, the choice to go after Daisy, whatever it might take, seemed like a foregone conclusion.
-
Martin would readily admit that, in the days surrounding Jon’s descent into and return from the coffin, he went a little mad. However, he thought it was entirely justified, given the circumstances.
First, there had been Jon vanishing for the afternoon and coming back with Melanie and one of his own ribs. Martin tried not to think about the fact that he found the idea of someone else reaching into Jon’s flesh just as upsetting as the extraction itself. In his state, neither of his so-called colleagues told him the purpose of the rib. If they had, he could have stopped Jon. Instead, he brought tea into his office one day as usual only to find the coffin unchained and Jon’s desk empty.
He managed to piece together most of the story, from Melanie and Helen and the tapes Jon had left behind. Basira showed up at some point before Martin forced her out, surprising her and Melanie with the strength of his fury as he screamed that it was all her fault that Jon was gone. The tape recorders seemed as good a solution as any available, so he set them up to accompany his silent vigil.
They didn’t even like Daisy- or at least, Martin didn’t think they had. She had hurt Jon. Even if he didn’t have the full details, Martin could see how Jon had gone tense and watchful whenever he was around her. But between his own foolish martyr complex (endearing as Martin found it, endearing as he found everything about Jon, even his bad decisions ) and Basira’s invective, Jon had hurled himself to his probable doom again and this time it wasn’t even for a real friend.
If Jon came back- when he came back- he promised himself, he wouldn’t place his own supposed morality or humanity above Jon’s safety again. This was the last time something like this would happen on Martin’s watch, no matter what he had to do to make that true.
-
Jon didn’t realize just how much he’d been robbing himself of human contact until he was deep under the earth and acutely aware he would never experience it again. The feeling of Daisy’s fingers locked around his wrist, and his around hers, felt like an entire world of sensation, when they found each other and managed it. He’d been trying to be more emotionally open, more forgiving and honest, since the coma, but that was the moment that made his decide it might be worthwhile to pursue physical affection, too.
He wouldn’t ask for much. He’d back off if any of them expressed discomfort or disgust at their monster boss wanting to cuddle. But he was going to ask.
-
Jon was more tactile than usual, when he did emerge. Martin assumed it had to do with what it had been like inside the coffin, and didn’t let himself feel bad about taking advantage while he could. It wasn’t like he was doing anything untoward, just welcoming Jon’s weight against his side and pulling him into hugs when he came within arms’ reach. Besides, with Basira just as absent as she had ever been and whatever they had gone through together, if he wasn’t going to Martin for comfort Jon would go to Daisy. Martin didn’t trust the former detective, even if she seemed different, even if Jon said she’d changed. She wasn’t safe for Jon.
Martin gradually let the touches go deeper, parting skin and muscle. Jon asked to move their cots in the tunnels closer, then side by side, and let Martin wrap him in his arms as they slept. He was a heavy enough sleeper and a late enough riser that he didn’t notice how Martin’s hands sank and melded with the flesh of his belly and chest, ensuring he couldn’t get up in the night to do anything dangerous without Martin knowing. Martin started pressing him to eat more- Jon didn’t tell Martin he didn’t think he needed human food any more, and Martin didn’t tell Jon that he knew. He just let the more regular meals provide a handy explanation for the bits of fat Martin padded onto his bones as he slept, gradually bringing him closer to a weight that would be healthy for something besides a skeleton.
Martin should have known that the secrecy couldn’t last forever. He thought he did, and just didn’t admit it to himself. Why else would he have started keeping… more… on his person, if not in preparation for someone finding him out and reacting poorly? He’d seen how difficult it had been for Melanie to kill Jared Hopworth, and if he was going to take care of Jon past the probably inevitably poor reaction of his coworkers, he needed to be at least that difficult to get rid of. And it gave him a use for the extras, when he went out at odd hours of the workday looking for someone with good, new flesh they could donate to Jon. There was more to a body than muscle and fat, after all, and Martin hadn’t been raised to be wasteful. Sensitive as he’d been about his size in the past, he liked the bits of almost-unnoticeable extra height and heft he could give himself.
He probably should have anticipated that it would all come out because Jon woke up from a nightmare at an inopportune moment, but it practically blindsided him. He was jerked awake by Jon thrashing against him. He tried to calm him by murmuring into his hair and holding him tighter- comforting words and gentle pressure usually settled him before he woke up entirely- but it didn’t work.
“Martin, let go,” Jon whispered, wriggling. Before Martin could draw his hands back, Jon reached up to try parting them himself. Martin felt his fingers probing the places where flesh met flesh in a smooth, unbroken expanse of skin, and felt it when Jon’s heart rate leaped. “Martin!” He was louder, no longer mindful of Daisy and Melanie down the corridor. “Martin, wake up!”
Martin released him and sat up, keeping a hand around Jon’s wrist- just holding it, for now. “Jon, it’s all right.”
Jon half-rolled to a sitting position, making the roped-together cots creak dangerously. “What- what was that, Martin, I felt- there’s something-!”
“Shh,” he rubbed Jon’s shoulder soothingly. Maybe he would think it was all some strange dream. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”
He saw the moment realization dawned in Jon’s eyes, the flicker of betrayal followed by terror and he connected Martin to the state he’d woken up in. He tried to throw himself backward, but Martin’s grip kept him on the cot. “What are you? What did you do to Martin?”
Martin glanced up the corridor, hoping the girls hadn’t heard Jon’s voice rising with hysterical pitch. “It’s me, Jon. I’m fine, you’re fine, it’s all fine. Come on, let’s go back to sleep.”
Jon’s eyes flickered back, and he gasped in a breath, “Dais-!”
Martin surged forward, snapping Jon’s mouth shut over the yell and holding it until he could press his fingers to his jaw, melding the bone into a single solid mass. It would have been easier and faster- and maybe less painful for Jon, though Martin thought the way it felt to mold his own body probably wasn’t what his victims (don’t say that Jon wasn’t a victim Martin was helping him) felt, so he didn’t have a proper baseline- to mold his mouth shut but. Martin always was a bit selfish. And it was harder to return skin and meat to its original shape than bone. He didn’t think he could return an area as small as Jon’s mouth to exactly what they were, if he did that, and Martin loved Jon’s lips, the crinkle on the left side and wide bow of them, exactly the way they were. Better to fuse the bone- if one of the girls did come by, that wouldn’t even be visible. “Jon, calm down, let me explain!”
Jon’s eyes widened when he realized that his jaw couldn’t move, and he started clawing at his face, trying to pry it open. He was gasping short, shallow breaths through his nose, and his eyes were welling with tears. He shook his head in blank denial.
“Stop that!” Martin reached forward and grabbed Jon’s hands, pressing them to his narrow chest and sticking them there, glad the shirt Jon slept in was oversized enough to slouch forward and leave a decent section of skin exposed- it made things easier, not trying to work through or around fabric. There were little red marks where Jon had dug his fingernails in, but it didn’t look like he’d broken skin. Jon’s eyes went even wider; he’d been so focused on his jaw that he’d momentarily forgotten the greater danger (only Martin wasn’t a danger, he just needed Jon to understand). It was too late now: Martin pulled him close, holding Jon loosely so his back rested against Martin’s chest. “Come on, breathe with me. You’re hyperventilating, Jon, I need you to breathe with me so you don’t faint.” Martin took slow, deep breaths, demonstrating, resting a palm on Jon’s chest, just below his hands, and providing light pressure in time with the breaths. Jon let out a high whine through his nose, wiggling ineffectually in place.
Eventually, Jon’s breathing slowed, and Martin turned him around, shifting so they were lying down facing each other. “There, that’s better.” He stroked one hand lightly through Jon’s hair. “I’m sorry you woke up like that. It must have been frightening. But I’m still just me, Jon. I haven’t been replaced or mind-controlled or anything. It’s just Martin. I just… learned some things, while you were away.”
Jon shook his head. His face was smeared with still-flowing tears and snot. Martin wiped as much as he could away with the tail of his pajama shirt. “Yes, Jon. I…” he looked away, not wanting to cry in front of Jon. “Jared Hopworth dropped his Leitner, the Boneturner one, when he attacked the Institute. I would have destroyed it, or given it to Artefact Storage but I-” his voice caught, “I thought I might be able to use it to wake you up.” He blushed. “I just want you to be OK, Jon. It’s all I ever wanted. But you won’t-” his voice rose and Jon flinched.
Martin took a deep breath, running a soothing hand over the other man’s hair. He kept his voice deliberately soft and even when he spoke again. He couldn’t bear to scare Jon more than he had already. “You never think twice about throwing yourself into danger. Daisy tried to kill you, and you still… I can’t lose you, Jon. I already did once, and I can’t do it again. And if keeping you means I have to make sure you can’t go anywhere without my knowing, making sure you aren’t able to hurt yourself, then so be it. I just want to take care of you.”
He doubted Jon could see him through the tears filling his eyes. His shoulders jerked in time with little choked sob-noises that were never able to leave his throat. “Oh, Jon.” Martin leaned in, kissed him gently on the forehead, “You’re alright. You’re safe. I would never hurt you.”
Jon jerked his head, and it took a few repetitions for Martin to realize he was trying to indicate his jaw without access to his hands or voice. “You have something to say?” Jon nodded weakly. “Alright, but no questions. Not tonight.”
Martin laid a gentle hand to the side of Jon’s face, unfusing his jaw, but kept it there in case Jon had any bright ideas about calling for Daisy or Melanie again. Jon gasped in a few deep breaths through his unobstructed mouth before speaking. “Please let me go, Martin. I’ll do anything , whatever you want, just let me-” he sobbed, “ Please!”
Martin sighed. “I think you know why I can’t do that, Jon.”
Jon’s heaving breaths shuddered in his chest and choked out in half-voiced sobs. “Please, please, please, please, please, please…” Martin pulled his head to rest against his shoulder and let Jon’s remaining tears soak into his pajama shirt, stroking his hair. Eventually, the sobs abated, and he heard Jon speak into his shoulder in a tiny voice, shoulders hunched inward toward his frozen hands, “I thought I was falling in love with you.”
Martin buried his face in Jon’s hair. His heart- the original one, the one he was born with- twisted. “Oh, Jon.”
When Jon seemed to have cried himself out, Martin reached up and fused his jaw shut again- “Just for tonight” (he didn’t want Daisy or Melanie to know before he had the chance to come up with a proper plan himself)- torn between being pleased and achingly sad that the action was allowed to pass without any more tears. He wasn’t even sure Jon noticed, the late hour and the crying combining so that he just looked at Martin, red-eyed and muzzy. Martin rolled them so Jon was mostly lying on his chest, his hands still pinned, between them, and shut his eyes, letting his hands creep up under the back of Jon’s sleep shirt to sink into yielding, living flesh.
-
He didn’t know how this could have happened, and he couldn’t think straight enough to figure it out between the physical pain in his body and the emotional pain of what he was sure was his heart breaking.
He wished he could tell himself that Martin had been different, but the other man had barely seemed to change over the six months of Jon’s absence. Nothing that couldn’t be attributed to the changed atmosphere of the Institute with Elias gone, Lukas in charge, and Melanie and Basira barely speaking to anyone. The closest thing he’d had to a clue was the ache he’d felt in his abdomen when he woke in the mornings, since he’d started sleeping next to Martin. But he’d never connected that to Martin, just put it down to some injury from the Buried or getting old.
He caught the important parts of Martin’s explanation- that he wasn’t a replacement, that he didn’t want to hurt Jon (but he had it hurt so much)- but most of the conversation, if it could be called that, was drowned out by his own panicked imaginings. What if Martin was still angry about how Jon had treated him when they first started working together? He hadn’t apologized, had meant to but never found a time that felt right, and now anything he said would come off as insincere, made out of fear of what Martin could do to him rather than genuine regret (he was so afraid of what Martin could do to him, Jared had been bad enough). What if Martin closed his nose in addition to his mouth? He never would have thought Martin was the kind of man to watch another suffocate for the sake of petty revenge, but he also never would have predicted Martin becoming an avatar of the Flesh.
He knew how Martin had felt before the Unknowing, had listened to the tapes. He’d considered tentatively returning those feelings, if it ever felt safe enough to leave the Archives for something as mundane as a dinner date, and if he could work up the nerve to tell Martin what exactly a relationship with Jon could and could not entail. He’d been hopeful, even, that Martin would take it well and not ask for more than Jon could give or reject him outright. Even if he tried to have that conversation now, it wouldn’t matter. If Martin could take his voice, the only defense becoming the Archivist had ever granted him, there was no reason why he couldn’t make Jon lie still and give anything Martin wanted, take anything Martin gave him, regardless of Jon’s feelings on the matter. He’d thought the worst thing that could happen, coming out to Martin, would be rejection, but now he had whole new worlds of fears to entertain.
Lying with his flesh melted into Martin like a box of crayons left out too long in the sun, slowly rocked by the rhythm of the other man’s breathing, Jon felt a deep, illogical loneliness, an all-consuming wish that Martin was there with him.
-
Martin was pleased to see that by morning Jon seemed to have mostly adjusted to the idea that Martin was different, but still himself. He had awoken to a litany of soft whines and whimpers in his ear, as Jon squirmed like a worm trying to free his hands or Martin’s from the places they’d become one with, but there had been no more tears. Once Martin had returned him to normal, he hadn’t even told Daisy or Melanie, intuiting Martin’s desire for privacy and placing it above the terror from the previous night. Or so he thought.
A little past noon, Martin made his way to Jon’s office with a cup of tea. He was annoyed to note that the door was ajar, which probably meant Daisy was inside.
It wasn’t that he didn’t feel for Daisy- he hated to imagine what might have happened to Jon, if Martin had spent months waiting for him to come back only to be unable or unwilling to talk to him for more than a brief moment when he did wake up. He probably would have rushed into something even more foolish than rescuing Daisy. But he didn’t like that she sought so much of her solace for her solitude in Jon. She didn’t deserve Jon’s patience or leaning touches, not after what she did to him! Had she even asked, or just assumed that since Jon had rescued her he wouldn’t mind her inserting herself into his daily existence?
He could hear their quiet voices as he approached. “-not asking you to do anything, just for advice!” Jon was saying.
“You realize that’s a really ominous way to ask that, right?” Daisy answered in a low rumble, still rough with the aftermath of staying silent and choking on dirt for months. Jon stuttered a bit in answer before she cut him off. “Of course I’ll give you advice, Jon.”
“It’s about Martin.” He could practically hear Jon wringing his hands. “Have you noticed anything, I don’t know, odd? About him? Lately?”
Martin tapped the doorframe, since the door itself was partially open. “Knock knock!”
He smiled as he came in, not letting on that anything was amiss. He wasn’t thrilled that Jon had been ready to spill his secret to Daisy, the person in the Archives most likely to decide arbitrary execution was the best answer (and Jon knew that, had been on the wrong side of Daisy’s decisions before) but he didn’t want to scare Jon.
Jon was sitting at his desk, looking paler than usual. He still needed more meat on his bones, Martin noted. He could do it faster, now that he could tell Jon what he was doing, and maybe then he wouldn’t look so sickly all the time. Daisy was lying flat on her back on the floor, legs working through some of her physical therapy exercises. “Martin!” Jon squeaked.
“Just bringing tea! Sorry, Daisy, I didn’t know you were in here or I would have made you some, too.” He wouldn’t have, but there was no need to be blatantly rude.
“S’fine,” she huffed. He could feel her eyes on him as he stepped closer to Jon, stepping a bit around the desk instead of just setting the mug down.
“Are you alright, Jon?” Jon’s hands were shaking.
“Yes, yes, I’m- I’m fine, Martin. Thank you for the tea.” He didn’t look up at Martin. Martin ached; he knew it would take time, but he wanted that easy, tactile trust from before back.
“Alright. Let me know if you need anything? I’m just outside.” Jon nodded, and, taken by a wave of uncontrollable fondness, Martin leaned in and pressed an impulsive kiss to his temple, high-tailing it out of the office before either Jon or Daisy could comment.
Jon must have decided against telling Daisy anything concrete, because she didn’t seem to look at Martin with much more suspicion than her default. He had probably just needed a reminder that Martin wasn’t Jared Hopworth, that Martin cared about Jon, he figured.
He went out, after the workday was officially over, looking for healthy meat to put on Jon’s bones now that he could. It was well past dark by the time he came back, abuzz with energy, and Jon and the girls were all already down in the tunnels for the night. Martin found Jon in his pajamas, sitting on his cot and examining the ropes they’d used to strap it to Martin’s so they could hold each other without the cots sliding apart and dropping them to the ground.
“Jon.” Jon startled, as he always did when he didn’t realize there was someone there with him.
His shoulders came up next to his ears and he looked at Martin through his bangs as he turned. “...Yes?”
Martin smiled reassuringly. “I’d like to try something. Can you stay still for me?” He settled down next to Jon, looking him up and down. “And um. Maybe take off your shirt?” Martin blushed, and his voice squeaked, but it really was a practical request. If he had to work with Jon’s shirt in the way, he wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing.
Jon complied slowly, never taking his eyes off of Martin. His ribs were much too prominent, even with the work Martin had been doing in secret over the past couple weeks. He could see the dip where Jared had taken a pair out- he wondered if Jon would like it if he replaced them? He still had one of the originals tucked in his desk, and one of appropriate dimensions shouldn’t be too hard to come by, if Martin looked.
Martin tried not to frown at the way Jon’s stomach was practically concave, or how his hips jutted over the waistband of his shorts. “Pull your legs up on the cot, too, please?”
“Martin, what- I’d like to know what you’re doing.” Martin beamed at him, both for his cooperation in pulling his legs up where Martin could see them and his thoughtfulness, being so careful not to ask any real questions and accidentally compel him. Jon brought his arms up, holding his shoulders against the chill of the tunnels and spurring Martin into action.
“Right.” He blushed harder, and wondered if there was some way he could reroute the capillaries in his cheeks so it didn’t happen so often. He’d done this before, but something about doing this with Jon conscious and watching him, pulling out his own flesh (it was his now, even if it hadn’t been originally) and pressing it beneath Jon’s skin, seemed unbearably intimate. “I just. This.” Probably better to explain by example.
He started slowly, focusing on Jon’s torso first. He’d done his research ahead of time, to make sure he wouldn’t get ahead of himself and hurt Jon somehow, and based on that he figured fat was more important there, where it could protect Jon’s organs and what was left of his ribs, than on the limbs. Jon shuddered at the odd feeling, watching in wide-eyed fascination as Martin’s hand went seamlessly beneath his skin, even though he must have seen it done before when he gave his ribs to Jared. Jon watched in silence, only letting out an occasional muffled noise- Martin shushed him and stroked his hair and face every time, wishing he could do this without it hurting- until Martin had gotten most of his torso looking healthily plump and was moving on towards his arms.
“What’s the point of this, Martin.”
Martin shivered, both at the absent-minded compulsion and the breathy, panting quality of Jon’s voice. “It’s not healthy to be as skinny as you are. And especially now, when we don’t know if you can put on weight the normal way at all anymore, something needs to be done.” He bit his lip. That wasn’t precisely how he’d have wanted to phrase it, if he hadn’t been compelled. He kept shifting his hands from his own flesh to Jon’s as he continued. “It’s not that I think there’s anything wrong with the way you are! Or, uh, were, I suppose. I’d love you no matter what you looked like, Jon, even if you don’t… feel the same. Even just as a friend! But I’m always worried you’re about to collapse, or go to sleep one night and never wake up because you’re so malnourished! You don’t take care of yourself, Jon!”
He was tearing up by the end, the overwhelming sensation of molding Jon’s body to a more cared-for shape mixing with his fears and the long months of waiting while he was in the coma to break down his usual barriers. He held one of Jon’s hands gently as he shifted fat and muscle beneath the skin of his arm.
“I’m a grown man, Martin. It’s no one else’s business whether or how I take care of myself!” Jon’s eyes were strange, almost feverish, but glazed, too. Martin winced again at the thought about how what he was doing must hurt. It was all for the best, he reminded himself.
“Why shouldn’t it be my business?” he retorted. “I’m here every day, I sleep next to you, you’re the most important person in the world to me, Jon! I don’t want to sit idly by and watch you self-destruct!”
“Because I can make my own decisions!”
“Well maybe you shouldn’t.” Jon went stiff at the words, but Martin plowed on. “Maybe you had your chance to make your own choices and you did such a bad job someone else needs to step in. Keep you from throwing yourself into coffins or getting kidnapped by clowns or letting people burn you on purpose!”
Jon’s breaths made his chest shake. Martin could see the movement, even with the extra padding he’d given him. Jon’s voice was choked. “You don’t mean that.”
Martin met his eyes, and some of the frustrated anger on his own face melted away when he saw Jon was on the verge of tears again. “I think I do, actually.” He looked back down to his work, turning the thought over in his head, as Jon made a warbling noise in his throat and fell silent. He didn’t even make a noise as Martin carefully reshaped the area covered by his shorts, working as quickly and clinically as possible.
When he was finally done, Martin looked down happily at Jon. He looked healthier than he had in ages- maybe healthier than Martin had ever seen him, even collapsed back on a pillow, woozy with exhaustion and pain. It would fade by morning, Martin was sure.
-
Had the ravages of memory dulled how scared he had been, when the Circus abducted him or with NotSasha messing with his head? Because Jon felt as if he’d never lived in fear as chokingly thick as what he’d felt since Martin had rounded him into a new shape.
If Jon had thought the night had been miserable, with hands on every inch of his body, too warm and meaty to remind him properly of the Circus but too pervasive and invasive to be comfortable, the morning had been worse. Martin had watched as Jon had guided the post of his belt buckle through a hole he’d never had to use before, and sighed with mixed annoyance and pride. “I suppose we’ll have some explaining to do when the girls see you, hm?”
“Martin,” Jon hadn’t known what he was going to say, and he didn’t get the chance to decide.
“I’ve thought about what we talked about last night, Jon.” Jon had just enough time to get his hopes up before they were crushed. “I think I was right. I think for a while, someone else should make your decisions for you, until you can prove you can make them for yourself without self-destructing.”
Jon’s throat seemed to close. First Leitner, insisting that Jon belonged to the Institute, to Beholding, then Elias affirming as much, then the Circus… He’d hoped, with Elias gone and no immediate threats to the Archives, he’d be able to at least play at being wholly his own again, but apparently that was at an end. What was it, that made him so different from everyone else that he didn’t count as a person in the same way? Had he been born like this? Had his encounter with Mr. Spider changed him in some indelible way, stitched some signal into his soul that marked him out as a perfect plaything to every supernatural entity in a twelve block radius?
As they climbed out of the tunnels, he gathered his courage and tried one last time. “Martin, please. You can’t, please don’t.”
Martin’s mouth set into a firm line. “This is for the best, Jon. You’ll see.”
-
Telling Daisy and Melanie how he’d changed went better than Martin had any right to expect. Melanie had asked if he was killing anyone or hurting anyone in the Archives, then told him to leave her alone and left in the middle of his explanation with a final, “Not my problem!”
Melanie leaving left him with Daisy, curled in on herself and emaciated but still with the faint gleam of a predator in her eyes. “Did you hurt Jon?”
Martin sputtered at the question before getting his nerve back. “No! I would never hurt Jon! And frankly, you’ve a lot of nerve accusing me considering what you did to him!”
Daisy’s eyes went dark with guilt for a moment before sharpening again. “Then why isn’t he here for this?”
He squared his shoulders. “He already knew. And he’s tired, wanted to stay in his office.” He thought it was probably true; it had seemed like the changes to his body had left Jon with some residual aches this morning, and he hadn’t objected when Martin suggested he have the conversation with the girls alone. He had obeyed so sweetly, when Martin had told him he ought to stay in his office for the morning, allowed him to fix his joints so he was stuck in his seated position on his chair without a murmur of complaint. He knew part of Jon chafed at the restrictions, but he was sure the firm hand would pay off in the long run. Like when Jon made it to his 30 th birthday instead of dying in his 20s, for example.
Daisy obviously chewed over the information, trying to determine if it was true. “How’s he feel about this?”
“He’s adjusting.” Martin frankly didn’t think it was any of her business, but he didn’t want to cause unnecessary conflict. She hummed and started toward Jon’s office, but Martin caught her by the arm. “I actually think it would be best if you let Jon be, for the time being.” He tried to make his voice firm, to brook no disagreement.
She snarled. “What, are you his keeper now?”
Martin drew himself up. “Maybe I am. I’m asking nicely, Daisy. I don’t have to do that, anymore.” Didn’t even need the book anymore, for flesh and bone to do as he said, though he’d implied it was still necessary in his explanation. He’d been practicing a lot.
Daisy glowered, but she set off into the depths of the Archive, away from Jon’s office, so he counted it as a win before stepping into the office himself.
Jon looked up to him, something tentative in his eyes. Martin smiled. “It, uh, went well, then?”
“Perfect.”
Jon gripped the edges of his seat and shifted, but if he wasn’t going to ask nicely instead of obliquely hinting at things then he could wait to stand until Martin let him up at lunch to go visit the loo. Open communication was something else Jon needed to improve on. “They didn’t… say anything?”
“Melanie still wants to be left alone, and Daisy doesn’t like it, but she’ll deal.” He stepped up to stand beside Jon, stroking his hair. He was doing this for Jon, helping him stay safe and taking the temptation of the statements, of losing himself further, out of his hands, but he had to admit having Jon totally reliant on him, forced to accept whatever he gave him and ask politely for anything extra, gave him a little thrill. It was a pleasant reversal from the days when he constantly feared Jon’s wrath, was all!
“I was wondering about Daisy, actually. She usually comes to listen to me record a statement, in the mornings.” Jon looked up guilelessly, and Martin’s hearts swelled with the love he felt for this beautiful, ridiculous man.
He pushed the feeling down so he could give Jon a sympathetic, concerned expression instead. “I don’t think Daisy’s good for you, Jon. I’ve asked her to keep her distance.”
Jon’s face fell. “Oh. I see.”
“It’s just- she hurt you, Jon!”
“Yes, I know, you bring it up often enough and I’m capable of remembering my own trauma, Martin!” Jon snapped. Martin gave him a scolding glance and pressed a finger to his lips, not changing anything just yet. Jon froze, going a bit cross-eyed trying to keep the finger in view. It was adorable.
“It’s my turn to speak, Jon. Daisy hurt you, and we have no way of knowing she won’t do it again, so I’m not going to let her spend time with you alone until I’m sure. Especially when you can’t stand.” If Jon could really hear himself, he’d agree. He’d even admitted she’d traumatized him!
Jon waited for a long pause before he answered, trying to be sure Martin was done speaking. Good. He pulled his hand away from Jon’s face to let him. “You could change that.”
Martin understood the bitter edge to the words, so he just sighed and pet Jon’s head gently. It would be an adjustment, but they would be alright. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you get too lonely.”
-
He didn’t see anyone but Martin anymore. How could he, with Melanie absorbed in her own troubles and Daisy banned? He walked to his office under his own power in the mornings, then allowed Martin to secure him there until lunch. He only spoke to read statements or answer Martin. He’d given up on begging that first morning.
Martin made sure he ate, and puzzled out the exact number of statements he thought Jon could consume without getting too desperate or losing himself. Jon gave input when he was asked, but even when he asked for his complaints Martin never seemed to think his unnatural hunger needed as much sating as Jon did. He laid back and tried not to think when he started to lose weight despite all Martin’s fussing, and Martin filled in the loose skin the fast way while he kept working on perfecting Jon’s diet.
He did as he was told, when he was told to do it, and he never complained. In return, Martin let him keep his voice, showered him in tender touches he would have melted at before, and reassured him that someday he would see it was all for the best. If Jon was too slow, or too fast, or too fidgety, or didn’t want to do something, Martin fixed him until he did it just as he should, and always checked to make sure Jon was happy and comfortable.
It was nice of Martin to let him pretend, even though they both knew Jon wasn’t the kind of thing that got to have opinions or feelings anymore. He only entertained his worst fantasies, that Martin would lose interest in him and leave him limp and abandoned in some corner of the tunnels like an unwanted doll, or decide that owning him like this wasn’t enough and he wanted to hold Jon closer and closer until he was eventually subsumed into Martin himself, in the depths of the night, when he was certain Martin was asleep.
He was able to snatch a few hours practically to himself, all under his own direction, when Martin received a message from Elias to visit him in prison and reluctantly left Jon in Daisy’s charge, with strict instructions to make use of his fully functioning body to run away and call Martin if he even thought she might try anything. He didn’t explain things to Daisy. She gave him searching looks and asked, but he understood now that there was no help for him; if she managed to put Martin off, another owner would come along and pick Jon up soon enough. Martin, at least, loved him. Wasn’t this what he had always wanted, for someone to look at him like he was precious and care for him unconditionally?
He enjoyed the time with his friend, leaning into a touch that couldn’t bend or warp him to its whims and talking about inconsequential, silly things. She let him choose what movie to pull up on her laptop, and he could have burst from the sudden rush of having a choice beyond what order to read his carefully rationed out statements in, all to himself. He tried not to regret that time, even when Martin came back trying to hide his fury. He held Jon so tight it hurt even without drawing on the Flesh, and the loneliness in the following days stung even more for having had Daisy back.
The only other disruption to their routine came when Basira received a statement about Martin’s evening exploits. Apparently the woman who had given it had been missing an arm, the wound neatly closed over without even the shadow of an incision. Jon found this all out secondhand; he wasn’t allowed live statements or recordings, since Martin wasn’t sure how they’d effect his diet. Basira had come down into the Archives for the first time since Jon and Daisy had come out of the coffin and gotten into a screaming match with Martin outside Jon’s door. He couldn’t quite follow them, talking over each other as they were, but it came out to Basira calling Martin a monster and Martin telling her she had no right to judge anything that happened in the Archives, since she’d abandoned them, and implying that if she tried to mess with him he would do something to Daisy. Jon didn’t know if it would count for anything if Basira did do something, but he made sure to be extra well-behaved after that. Maybe if he was especially good, Martin would remember he liked Daisy, and reward him by not hurting her too badly. He wondered what Martin had done with the arm, but didn’t ask.
Mostly, his life became as much of a dull routine as it could, when his primary sustenance came from graphically reliving the fears of others. There was something freeing about knowing nothing was in his control, anymore. He would be alright, or he wouldn’t, and there was very little he could do to change things either way. All he could do was exist, and take what Martin saw fit to give him. Hope Martin continued to keep things strictly platonic.
If Martin had asked if he was happy, Jon would have bobbed his head agreeably, like a puppet on a string. He was very agreeable these days. Martin told him he was good.