Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Someone is dead. 

That’s old news, as there is always someone dead when the Head Archivist of London’s Magnus Institute is involved. 

Jonathan Sims sits at his desk in the basement of the institute, one hand holding a statement, the other clutching a tape recorder. His office is cold, cluttered, and the only sign of life is in his voice ringing out against the walls.

Outside his office, in the break room, his assistants Timothy Stoker and Sasha James chatter over lukewarm lunches. Their individual workloads are safely hidden behind the closed door of their offices, research on dreadful paranormal statements are out of sight and firmly out of mind. 

It is an ordinary day in London, someone is dead and all. 

Melanie King finds her way through the ancient halls of the institute, a whistled tune on her lips. Some employees shoot her glares, others nod in acknowledgement, but most ignore her presence. Rosie offers a half hearted wave as she juggles between phone calls. Melanie waves back before descending the stairs into the chilled, dusty basement known as the Archives. 

With little ceremony, she kicks open Jon’s office door, causing the man to jump with a shout as she enters. 

“It’s called knocking , Melanie!” He all but yells. 

“It’s called use the lock, Jon!” She counters, grabbing his coat and throwing it at his face. He barely manages to catch it, flinching in the process. “Get your things, we have a case.”

“A case?” Jon stares, his surprise melting away to a deeply unimpressed look. 

“Yes, a case!” She says, proud as ever in her hard work. 

“I’ve got about….twelve cases on my desk at the moment.” Jon deadpans. 

“No! Jon- Listen!!” Melanie moves forward, slapping her hands on  his desk. He offers a raised eyebrow and nothing more. “This is a fresh case, proper spooky and everything! An old lady reached out to us for help. We can’t ignore that can we?”

“Yes.”

“Jon!” Melanie groans, kicking his desk. “This is worth our time, I know it is. I can feel it!”

This time, Jon makes sure to put extra theatrics into his eye roll. “Oh sure, let me stop my work because you feel something.” 

“Prick!”

“Fine!” He huffs, slamming a statement folder shut before getting to his feet. “Fine, fine. Lead the way, Miss King.” 

Melanie breaks into a smile and gives a celebratory fist pump. “Yes!”

Which is how Jon finds himself in Melanie’s shitty beat up truck as they make their way through the worst of London’s traffic. Jon grumbles at every driver who tries to tailgate them or cut in front of them, but his complaints are drowned out by Melanie’s shouted road rage. He only mostly supports it. 

After the traffic and Melanie’s rage loses its novelty, Jon allows himself a short snooze, head resting on the window as she weaves her way to their destination. Jon is awoken about forty minutes later by a harsh stop as Melanie pulls into a parallel park. He would curse or shout in surprise if it were not what he was used to. Instead, he simply unbuckles himself and grabs his things before exiting the car with a very pointed huff. 

“Lucky parking.” Melanie smiles, catching up with Jon easily. “Lets go.”

They make their way around the block, crossing the street towards a battered apartment building. They climb up a mildewy flight of stairs before Jon follows Melanie down a hall to a miserable brown door. 

After three sharp knocks which are followed by an abnormally long silence, Melanie curses. 

“Shit.” She says, knocking again. “I called in advance. She said she would be here,” then, in a louder voice, “Mrs. Blackwood? It’s me, Melanie King? We spoke on the phone-”

The door falls open and a young man stares back at them. 

“Sorry,” He says softly. “She didn’t tell me she was expecting anyone today. She’s not feeling too well, so…” He makes a placating motion with his hands as though that completes his thoughts. Jon is thoroughly unimpressed.

“Right, well, it would be nice to talk to her, considering the time we’ve taken to get here.” Jon deadpans as Melanie elbows him in the rib. The man flushes and Jon scowls. 

“Oh, of course!” He says, “Right this way.” 

The inside of the flat looks just about right for an old woman. There are books - poetry and fantasy and crafting - tucked alongside an array of bibles on a shelf by the window. Blankets and throws are laid over the armrests of the couch. Crocheted doilies on the coffee table, and once treated flowers are now dead in colorful vases. Jon rolls his eyes at the tacky taste, remembering with mixed emotion the way his grandmother’s house used to look. 

They head towards the back, down a short hallway before they’re halting at a door. The man shoots them a smile before knocking.

“Mrs. Blackwood? You have guests-”

“From the Magnus Institute, you contacted me earlier?” Melanie cuts him off. “It’s Melanie King and my associate Jonathan Sims!” 

Jon huffs a sigh as they’re greeted by a lengthy silence. Typical , he thinks, before a snapped, “Well don’t keep me waiting!” comes through the door. 

“Okay.” Melanie shares a look with Jon, who rolls his eyes as the man opens the door. 

“Dave don’t be a brat, get my guests  some chairs.” The woman on the bed, one Mrs. Blackwood, has graying brown hair and permanent frown lines on her skin. The sight of her withering glare is enough to send Jonathan Sims back twenty years, when the same woman had scolded him for knocking over her nativity scene. “Nurses these days.”

Mrs. Blackwood .

Jon catches his breath, feeling like a deer in the headlights as the man, Dave, heads back out. 

“Mrs. Blackwood, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Melanie King.” Melanie holds out her hand, but the old woman only scoffs in return. 

“I know who you are. You’ve already shouted it enough times.” She all but barks. Then, her eyes turn to Jon. “Why are you here?”

For a moment, he’s unsure of what to say, how to act. Why ? “I uh, I-Well-”

“Jon’s the head archivist of the institute. He’s the one with enough experience to determine if we should get involved or not.” Melanie says, shooting him a glare that is nothing compared to the contempt on Mrs. Blackwood's face. 

It’s then that Jon knows the twenty years that aged her had changed him too. She did not recognize him, although he is certain he would always know her. The small signs of warmth in the flat, the desperate attempts at making it a home, all click into place and Jon feels his knees weaken. 

The only reason Melanie brought him along is because someone is very much dead and there is someone so very clearly missing from the picture. Someone who waters the plants, someone who loved reading as much as Jon, who saw a home in his grandmother's tacky taste. There is someone missing from the image of the flat, a shape so achingly familiar Jon could trace it out with his fingertips.

“Here,” Dave the nurse says, bringing back two fold out chairs for Jon and Melanie. Jon fumbles to open his, but his mind is already reeling with the information he’s going to receive whether he likes it or not. He desperately doesn’t want to know, or Know, or have it spoken. He’s never wanted to not know something so much, to leave before getting any confirmation of his doubts and thoughts.

“Jon?” Melanie’s voice breaks through the static building up in his mind enough for him to push his limbs. He reaches through this bag until he hits the recorder, feels it come to life with his sorrow and fear. 

His voice pushes out of him as he looks at Mrs. Blackwood, not a shred of sorrow or worry on her face. 

“Statement of Mrs. Blackwood regarding…” Jon takes a breath, “...The mysterious death and disappearance of her son. Statement taken live directly from the subject. Recording by Jonathan Sims and Melanie King of the Magnus Institute. Statement begins..”

“Right,” The old woman said, settling into her seated position on the bed as she began her story. “My son, Martin, is dead...” 

The story flows from her lips start to finish and Jon looks at her withered frail hands.

Chapter Text

The carnations in Martin K. Blackwood’s living room are vibrant red, breathing a sense of life to an otherwise dreary apartment. Jonathan Sims stands alone, his fingertips hover above the soft petals, eyes distant as he imagines Martin picking them out with the tender hope that they might make his home a little more beautiful and so a little more bearable. Martin always had a habit, an incredibly admirable stubborn streak of finding something wonderful in his life regardless of how much the world trampled on his hope.

When his mother got sick, Martin got to meet his grandfather for the first time.

When his father left, Martin got a new home in a seaside town. Jon remembers those conversations. The sun had been setting overhead, staining the sky a deep shade of orange and painting the clouds in a warm pink. Warm like the smile of a boy that considered Jon his first friend.

Now, twenty years later, Jon is not ashamed to admit that the very large feelings he held for Martin could be summed up by a very small word.

Love. 

Jonathan Sims, as much as he had been able to understand, had absolutely loved Martin K. Blackwood. Those were the simple times of childhood, the last strands of youth that slipped from his fingertips the way his grandmother's life had. The way old man Blackwood’s life had.

The sound of footsteps pulls him from his memories, and with a quick touch of his fingertips, the vibrant red of the flowers wither away.

“Are you alright?” Dave the nurse asks, coming to stand beside him.

“Tired.” Jon admits. “It was... a heavier story than anticipated.”

“Yeah,” The nurse says, clears his throat and starts again. Jon tries not to make a face. “I uh, I only ever met Martin once. The other nurses loved him when they visited. He wasn’t-I mean I get where she’s coming from-” Jon shoots him a glare, hears his teeth click together as the nurse stutters through his words. “I-I just meant...That he was a proper good son. Sure he wasn’t-wasn’t out rebuilding the world. B-But he was a good man. D-Don’t take her words on him seriously.”

“Oh.” Jon bites the inside of his cheek, feels sorrow tear through him and leave him empty. It is good to know that there were people around Martin who saw him for what he was, instead of what his mother thought him to be. He is thankful that someone is trying to clear Martin’s name. It’s the least he deserves. 

“You don’t think he did it, do you?” The nurse interrupts Jon’s mourning again, and some part of him wants to throttle the man for even asking. “It’s just, if he was murdered like she hopes-’Cuz if he did kill himself then-”

“Shut up.” Jon snaps before static fills his mind, slamming the depth of Martin’s loneliness into him like a frigid wave. It knocks the breath from him, makes his arms heavy and numb. Jon shutters, shoving past the nurse towards the door. “Tell my associate I’ll be waiting in the car.”

He shuts the door behind him with a satisfying slam, relishing in the fresh air that replaces the static and weighs him down to reality.

As Jon makes his way back, he thinks of the dead flowers in the vase. He thinks of a young boy gardening with his grandfather in the light of the early morning twenty years ago. 

Melanie King does not know that the Archivist once loved Martin Blackwood. She doesn’t need to know to see that this case has affected Jon. She gets it, so she doesn’t comment on the way he curls into himself as they make their way to their next destination. His eyes are trained out the window, his shoulders hunched to his ears. Melanie would be quick to tease him any other case had the statement of Mrs. Blackwood not shaken her to the core.

Her father had been good to her. He had instilled a sense of security that gave her the courage to go after ghouls and ghosts and rude youtube commenters. The disregard with which a mother could talk about her own son sat with her, an unwelcome passenger in the back of her mind. 

She makes a mental note to call her father when she gets home.

“What an awful prat of a woman.” She eventually says, and it’s enough to get a snort out of Jon.

“Oh good!” Melanie says sarcastically as they pull into the funeral home parking lot. It’s full of shiny black cars and towards the back, Jon can see a congregation of dark clothed individuals standing solemnly around an open grave. “There’s no bloody parking! How! ”

Melanie shakes the steering wheel, her shoulders tense. Jon turns his gaze towards the group of people. They stand still as graves with a carefully curated distance between them.

“Do you think...Do you think everyone is busy over there now?” He wonders aloud.

“Hm?” Melanie squints her eyes in their directions, leaning over to his side to get a better view. “Uh, probably? Why?”

He looks out at the stiff bodies surrounded by gravestones. The thought of Martin being lowered into the cold uncaring dirt is too much. If the world is a grave in waiting, then it can wait a minute more. “If there’s no parking, you keep looking. I’ll go on ahead.”

“Excuse me, what?” Melanie presses on the breaks. “A-And what, risk you offending Mr. Blackwood? Lose all our leads?”

“We don’t have time for this. I’m not- I’m not that bad Melanie.” He can’t be that bad, there is no way he could make Martin hate him in a minute. Right?

“Seen it happen before, is all.” She says simply, hands squeeze the steering wheel. “Besides, it’s just a minute. You’ll be back in your basement soon enough.”

“It’ll take longer to find parking, obviously. I doubt even I can mess up one question.” He tries. “Besides, it is just a minute . We can move on to the next phase instead of wasting all our day on parking. If- and that’s clearly a very big if- there’s anyone there I’ll just...lie my way into a literal minute of alone time with the corpse.”

She turns her harsh gaze to him, eyes staring daggers as she contemplates his words. He’s not sure what she sees in his face, but he knows Mrs. Blackwood’s statement hurt some naive part of her heart that assured her a parent always loved their child. He instantly feels sorry for knowing that, sorry that he cannot reach out and comfort her without letting her know he’s overstepped. 

“Fine.” She relents, forcing the word out as though she’s had to push it through her teeth. “Be careful, though. I don't want to tell Tim or god forbid - Georgie! - that I had to leave you behind because you got caught .”

“Oh I have never been caught! Can you honestly say the same?” He throws back at her, earning him a smack to his arm. 

“Get out of my car!”

With that, Jon grabs his bag and steps out of her truck. He makes his way inside the building. It’s not the worst funeral home Jon has seen, nor is it any better than the rest. It is just part of the long line of mediocrity that has followed Martin even in death. It sets his teeth on edge, his chest aching at the thought of waking Martin up to this sight. To an empty room, alone as always.

“I am sorry,” He says to no one.

Jon’s found that as long as people assume he belongs there, there’s very little push or pull to his presence. If someone pushes, throwing around his title and the institute name is enough to at least get them to freeze, and that always provides enough time for him to talk his way to where he wants to be. 

But he meets no resistance as he walks through the halls. Jon assumes home is understaffed and ensuring that whoever got such a grand goodbye in the yard is getting their money's worth. 

Jon makes his way towards the back, a half open door that leads to a white room with a small table with flowers on it and a shiny large coffin. 

The whole world is a grave , he reminds himself. There are hundreds of dead just outside, Martin is no different. He is not anymore special than anyone else Jon has brought back, and Martin will get his minute and nothing more, nothing less.

Jon braves himself as he enters the room. A minute is not enough, he reasons, not for a lifetime of grieving what ifs. Melanie could barge in any moment, a worker could kick him out. Then he wouldn’t even have his minute.

And if he offends Martin? If Martin forgot him, takes one look at him and feels nothing? Twenty years have passed, he reminds himself and so he steals himself against the naive part of his brain that hopes for a happy reunion, tramples it down and fixes himself as what he is. The Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, there to see how a man died. Nevermind who that man is or was.  

“Right…” Jon sighs, moving forward to place his hand on the lid of the coffin. It’s cool to the touch, nothing new as he sets about unlatching it. With a hefty shove, the lid gives way to reveal one Martin K. Blackwood. 

“O-Oh.” Jon stares, a hand coming to cover his mouth, overcome and awed. 

Martin K. Blackwood was a short freckled boy with a sunny smile and curly mop of hair. He loved poems that Jon couldn’t wrap his head around and would always pretend to rescue spiders from Jon, though he always knew it was himself who was being rescued. 

The man in the coffin has a splattering of freckles across his face, two prominent spots on his left cheekbone. His hands rest on his soft stomach and his expression is passive, which is so jarring compared to the smiles Jon remembers.

It’s a face made for smiling, Jon thinks, hand reaching out to touch the soft swell of Martin’s cheek.

Then, Martin’s arm shoots out to grab his coat, pulling him forward with a speed that blindsides Jon almost as much as the pain that shoots across his nose when his face meets the lid of the coffin.

“Shit!” Jon shouts, stumbling back with his hands held up to his nose.

“Who are you? W-What! Where am I!” Jon hears Martin - Martin! - stumble out of the coffin. He looks up, eyes watering and hands lowering. “Stay back! I-I’ve got- I’ve got a knife!”

“Do you? Why would you have that?” Jon asks, bewildered and wondering what the funeral home’s policy on burying keepsakes with bodies might be. Martin stops looking through his pockets, his frantic eyes snapping up to him. His eyes might as well pop out of his head, face going pale at the sight of Jon.

“Jon! Jonathan Jon Sims?” He gasps, his flabbergasted expression melts away into a smile so bright with relief and recognition it renders Jon speechless. He remembers , his mind supplies. “What are you doing here?”

He moves forward, arms open as though to embrace Jon. Panic shoots through him, twenty year old memories of a younger Martin rushing out of his house to throw his arms around him flashes through his mind. Jon stumbles back, clumsily putting distance between them.

“I-Oh. S-Sorry!” Martin says, stopping instantly, face flushing. Jon blinks, staring at the space between them before looking up and up and up to Martin’s face. He doesn’t look offended. He doesn’t look hurt, just bashful. 

“I-Uh.” Jon stares. “Weren’t you shorter than me?”

Martin’s smile is bewildered and amused. “Yes? Grandpa always said not to worry though, tall kids stay short.” He beams.

“I-I hey! I’m not short!” Jon snaps like a fool who is talking to Tim or Georgie or Melanie and not a stranger he loved twenty years ago. Jon balks, but Martin’s giggling before the guilt can really settle in. It’s a noise he’s heard hundreds of times in his youth as they shared secrets and snacks between them.

“No, you’re not.” Martin agrees, “You’re perfectly you sized.” 

Oh . Jon’s breath catches in his throat. Martin’s smile reaches his eyes, making his entire face brighten with that unyielding warmth of his soul. His face was made for smiling.

Jon belatedly realizes, as he takes in the sight of Martin, that he never started his stopwatch, but he finds that he doesn’t care. Not when Martin K. Blackwood is looking at him like that. The moment settles around them, soft as the spring day they first met. 

“Here,” Martin says, taking the handkerchief from his front pocket and placing it on the corner of the coffin besides them. “This feels awfully familiar.”

Jon touches his hand to his face, feels the stickiness of blood and barks a laugh. “I think…” He says, reaching for the fabric to hold to his nose. “That the K in Martin K. Blackwood stands for Knose breaker.”

Martin blinks, his eyes wide as his face grows impossibly joyful and a bit smug. “That was a terrible joke, Jon. Truly awful. Maybe if you watched were you put your nose-”

“I would say maybe if you weren’t so short, but it looks like you took my advice and got taller.”

Another laugh, Jon watches Martin’s shoulders shake and knows somewhere in the back of his mind that a minute has gone and left and that Martin remains. 

And that the world is better for it. 

Martin wipes his eyes and catches his breath and looks at Jon in a way that makes him feel...defenseless. Invincible. “You remember.”

“Of course.” Jon says. 

Martin takes a step closer. Jon tilts his head up to meet his eyes. “Thank you.”

“Of course…” Jon steps back, tucking his hands behind his back as Martin’s own falls from where Jon had been a second before. Martin’s face doesn’t betray him, but Jon knows the rejection hurt.

“Sorry,” Martin says again, clasping his hands in front of him. “I-It’s just very good to see you.”

“No, I understand Martin, don’t you worry about that.” He wishes he could be surprised by the softness of his voice, but Martin always made him feel honey sweet. “If I could-I mean, I would kiss you or something. It’s a joy to see you again, Martin but-” Jon sighs. “But we can’t- we can’t touch- are…”

The words die on his lips. Martin K. Blackwood stands in front of him, a wonderful boy grown into a beautiful man. Twenty years of distance between them and yet there is something so innate about him that Jon would recognize anywhere. Martin stares at him, face flushed and hands fidgeting. It was annoying when Dave did it and absolutely endearing on Martin. 

But this is work. There is a coffin beside them with the sole purpose of being Martin’s eternal resting place. Grief washes against him, a low tide against his ankles compared to the bittersweet joy of seeing Martin’s smiling face.

“Y-You would kiss me?” Martin says, voice cracking. “B-But we can’t? I-Is this the part of the afterlife where you tell me the rules and-and then I go...wherever?”

And just like that sorrow fills him up. Jon coughs into his hand to avoid a sob.

“So you know you’re dead.” Jon says, voice low and accusing.

“It’s not hard to parse, I guess. I was in a coffin. I-I remember dying.” Martin shrugs. “I’m sorry you’re here Jon. I’m sorry you died young too. You would have made a good old man, I think. Think you’ve been training for that since we were kids-Oh! C-Can I see gramps?” While Martin smiles again, Jon can see the sorrow lingering in his eyes. Martin, towering over Jon rocks back on his heels as he waits for his answer, and all Jon can do is sit with his feelings. It’s a motion he’d seen him do hundreds of times. As different as Martin is, some things remain.

“Thank you, Martin.” Jon says. “To extend your-your condolences to a stranger.”

“Not-Not that much a stranger. I mean, I know you...knew you? Pretty well, I would say.” He motions to Jon, a bashful smile on his lips. “S-So, can I see grandpa?”

“No…” Jon says softly, shaking his head. “Martin you did die. That is the reality of the situation, but-but now? You’re alive. I brought you back.”

“Like...Necromancy?” 

“Wh-How? No…” Was it like that? He asked himself. “Uh. I’ll get back to you on that. Um. Do you remember the neighbors dog? How she died after getting hit by that car?”

“Um, she didn’t die , Jon.” Martin reminds him gently, eyes wide. “It was, I mean it looked bad but you literally said she just needed a lie down- Wait.”

“Never pet her again after that, did I?”

“Oh…” Martin exhales, overwhelmed and unsure. “Wait for real? I-uh, that’s a lot to take in.”

“Tell me about it.” Jon says with a snort. The silence that falls around them, once again, feels oddly comfortable. Jon’s mind helpfully provides the information that Martin paid enough attention to him to know that Jon never pet the dog after that. He goes pleasantly warm at the thought. 

“So we can’t touch.”

“Or you’ll die.”

“So we can’t actually kiss-” Jon goes still as Martin slams his mouth shut and tries again. “Shouldn’t I..? Be dead? Is- Won’t- I don’t know…” Martin trails off and Jon’s gaze slides off Martin towards the white walls of the room. He’s right, of course. Someone has already paid the price for Jon indulging himself on extra Martin time. Jon doesn’t want to linger on it, he can’t bring himself to care or regret it, and it’s not as if Martin needs to know.

“I’ve brought other people back before, for shorter periods but I’ve never had a problem?” Jon says, not necessarily a lie. “I-I normally find out how they died, solve a murder or not, and then let them rest in peace.”

“That...That’s rather noble of you, Jon.” Martin says, his voice soft. “Is that what you were going to do for me?”

“Ah, yes. Find out how you died. Let you- Let you…” Let him go. Jon doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to kill Martin, watch the life drain from his rosy cheeks and his smile go flat. “I...really didn’t think this through, did I?”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s very sweet of you.” Martin says, then pointedly looks at Jon’s hands before giving his own a squeeze. Jon goes warm at the thought, the intention behind the motion. “I’m sorry you have to kill-death, uh...Sorry you have to be here for my second death. That’s not fair to you.” 

Jon stares at his hands. Large and certainly warm, dusted with freckles at the knuckles. Leave it to Martin to apologize for his own death. Leave it to him, an angry part of Jon’s mind provides, because that’s all he’s had these last twenty years. The statement of his mother falls into place, the empty room and the immense loneliness Jon felt in that apartment. The man in front of him deserves far more from life than what he got and Jon has the perfect means to give him a second chance.

After all he’s taken from him, after all the ways his touch has been a curse, maybe this time it can be a gift. 

“Martin.” Jon says, voice low and certain. He looks up, finds Martin’s eyes already on him. “What if you didn’t have to stay dead?” 

Somewhere in the graveyard, Nathaniel Lukas lays dead.

Chapter Text

Jonathan Sims is seven years old, getting ready for bed when he freezes in his spot. 

There is nothing out of the ordinary, his nightly ritual of pajamas and teeth brushing and making sure his grandmother’s canary is fed goes off without a hitch. It is simply that as he pulls back the covers to get into bed, his heart stutters in his chest and he feels a dark tendril of fear yank at his soul.

It feels like free falling. Like a terrifying roller coaster and like knowing too much. 

The house he lives in is a coffin, a time capsule for someone who loved Jon -he’d been told- apparently so much more than he could comprehend. For all that love, for all that care and effort, Jon could not remember his father. His memory was nothing more than a shadow he lived under, unable to escape the longing gaze his grandmother shot him when she tried finding her dead son in him. 

The house is hers, but the walls are a shrine to his father’s memory. Second, to his father is his mother. Her legacy looms over him, he dreads it as much as he dreads any conversations starting with “You know, your mother loved reading too ”. It is a shame the dead control his future without ever having been in his life. He never asked for their input, and the fact that he has to pretend to care leaves him miserable.

It’s a cruel thought, a selfish and stifling thought. 

More than anything, it’s the realization that his parents are dead and all their years of life have led to nothing. Jon isn’t anything like his father, his humor is off and his smiles are stiff. He doesn’t have the graceful charm of his mother. He has lanky limbs and weak hands, and eyes that stare too much, a mind that wants to devour in peace.

The truth is, Jon is going to die. He doesn’t know when, but the knowledge of his death is enough to keep him up at night, clutching the bedsheets and listening intently to noises of the night, waiting with certainty for the thing that will claim for life. 

It is difficult to connect with his peers. It feels like the other children don’t know why he’s so jumpy, don’t understand the fear that paralyzes him even for trivial things. 

Jon knows. He feels it. That nothing matters in the end. That in the end, he can love and be forgotten, that he can live and never mean anything because the end takes everything. It is patient, it is waiting. Life is fragile, a terrible accident with nothing to show for it. 

Jonathan Sims is seven years old and he is terrified of living almost as much as he is of dying. 

He is seven years old when that fear manifests into something he will spend the rest of his life trying to ignore, trying to hide. 

Twenty-one years later, Jonathan Sims walks out of the funeral home with a half-baked plan he’s convinced himself will work and a bloody pocket square pressed to his nose. It’s not so much that his plan will work, it is simply that it must. Because it’s Martin that will pay the price if things fall apart. So he will make his plan work, no matter what.

He is dragged from his dread as Melanie pulls up beside him, window down and a scowl on her face. Belatedly, Jon realizes none of the cars have budged. It’s off putting just how little time passed between Jon and Martin, how much could change in seconds without the world knowing any better. 

“What the hell happened to your face?” Melanie snorts a laugh. Jon rolls his eyes. 

“Apparently I spooked him when he woke up.”

“I know this all tragic, but it would be so funny if you woke him up only for him to punch you and die.” Jon hates that thought, even if it brings Melanie a childlike joy. 

“What about the lead?”

“Worth it.” She nods, “If I had a minute of life and touching you would kill me, I would absolutely go out with a punch. Absolute legend.”

“Well, that’s not what happened,” Jon narrows his eyes at her. Martin isn’t that sort of senseless violent person. Martin was surprised and startled, but instantly remorseful and pleasant. Jon tells Melanie. 

“Cute…,” She says, sounding bored now that her fanciful dream of Jon making a fool of himself holds no water. “So what did he say?”

She nods to the door, indicating that he should be getting in. Jon feels his mouth go dry at the realization that...he never asked Martin anything about his death. It was simply too unpleasant and Martin far too pleasant to put the two together. 

“He said, uh-” Shit . Jon’s mind goes blank with panic, both at the idea of having to lie through his teeth to Melanie of all people and because movement catches his eye. Glancing to the side, Jon sees two tall men loading Martin’s shiny black coffin onto the back of a truck. He balks, deflating like a popped balloon. “-Hnnh .”

Martin . His mind helpfully supplies. A single name and a single face, eyes like warm honey and a smile just as sweet. Jon stares, stricken as the truck moves. Martin, alive for less than ten minutes and on his way to an early grave. 

“Well?” Melanie says, clearly annoyed. 

“I left my fucking phone.” Jon lies, words thrown to the wind as he hurls himself forward to cut through the building as the truck turns the corner. “Fuck.”

Jonathan Sims is eight years old when something throws a giant wrench in his fear of living. It is not so much a something as it is a someone . It is not so much a wrench as it is an elbow, and it is not so much his fear of living as it is his nose. Regardless, it is all the same.

In Martin’s defense - although Jon just knew him as The Boy - he had simply been trying to help his mother move their belongings into his grandfather’s home. He had tripped - or perhaps Jon had walked into him because of a very interesting book, Jon would never say - and ended up crashing into Jon. It was very hard to be impressed by The Boy and his many dazzling freckles and spluttered words. It was hard to be impressed by anything when The Boy lunged forward, a packet of tissues pulled from his pocket to press white squares to his face.

“What are you doing?” Jon demanded, tasting copper.

“Oh god, don't talk.” The Boy responded, pressing the tissues to Jon. “You’re bleeding!”

And he was. Bleeding. The last time he had bled had been with his grandmother’s canary just before he pressed his fingers into its dead body. When it burst to life the shock made him pull back, hand catching on the wire. Jon remembers it. Death. The non-existing existence just before he touched it. The stillness that refused to take.

“Are you alright? Lean forward and let it run-”

“What do you know about broken noses?” Jon snapped, still doing as he was told. The Boy startled, hands hanging in front of him uselessly. (Martin tries not to think about his mother. He tries, and fails, not to think about his father.)

“You should go home, get it looked over.”

“Obviously.” Jon sneered. He was embarrassed to realize his home was right across the street. With a groan, Jon starts walking only to stop when The Boy stays beside him. “What?”

“You dropped your book.” He said simply, “Do you live there? Are you the neighbor boy that Grandpa talks about? You like to read a lot, right?”

So many inane questions. But Jon likes Mr. Blackwood. It’s odd to exist in the minds of others, especially before having met. 

“Didn’t know Mr. Blackwood had family,” he says, possibly too honest. 

“I didn’t know I had a grandpa until recently. It was a nice surprise.” The Boy beams. Jon...supposes it’s charming. 

And then. And then The Boy stays. Despite the small insults that slip from Jon, mostly out of experience telling him that The Boy is going to mock him or call him strange. But The Boy introduces himself as Martin while he helps Jon with the first aid kit since his grandmother isn’t home. Martin talks, and Jon listens. And Jon talks, and Martin listens. And they talk, and they laugh. 

Jonathan Sims is eight years old when he makes his first friend. 

(Jonathan Sims is eight years old when he first learns that love is an incredibly powerful force of nature. Especially when that love is named Martin.)

It is absolutely fascinating, Martin thinks, that someone can change so very much and still be the same. Jon carries himself with a confidence that is taut like a rubber band. It holds steady until it snaps, which Martin would never purposefully do. This is possibly why he is hiding in his coffin with Jon’s phone in his hands, flipping through youtube and looking up the day’s news instead of thinking of the way Jon still carries his emotions on his face. 

He’d managed to talk himself into a plan that, realistically, Martin couldn’t condone. It didn’t seem dangerous, just overly complicated and a tad bit silly. Still, he trusts Jon. 

And focusing on that means he does not have to focus on the way the walls of the coffin are snug against his shoulders. It does not take much for the back of his hands to brush against the soft cushion of the lid. The way they sink into it makes him ill, knowing just how little space exists between him and the walls despite the infinite darkness. 

The light of the phone does not help. But it is a worthy distraction. 

Jon will be back , he comforts himself. He believes it too. Grave robbing, especially someone like Martin, can’t be too difficult. Googling himself brings up nothing, so his strange disappearance and death hadn’t even made the local news. That’s not surprising.

His thoughts drift to his mother.

So he focuses on the very small space he is stuck in, instead. It’s a friendlier fear. Martin opens the note app and jots down words, phrases, little thoughts that come to mind. Forces himself to move on, allows himself to linger on the hopeful upturn of Jon’s smile.

Far sooner than expected, the coffin jolts. He smiles, waiting for the sight of Jon setting him free. Instead, the first jolt is followed by another one, then a steady sway. 

Hm . 

Time in the coffin stretches out, as infinite and unpromising as the darkness around him. The seconds feel like minutes, and his anxieties catch up quickly as they overtake the carefully constructed calm. 

What if he gets cremated before Jon even returns?  Oh, Martin doesn’t like that thought at all. His mother would never allow that, would she? At least he would know. He would know how he died instead of having that awful numbness in his mind, frigid ice that filled his lungs and made every breath feel like the last. It would be better than the sudden tightness around his throat, and then…

Another jolt. Martin yelps in surprise, part of him hopes that it’s enough to get whoever is moving the coffin to notice, another part knows it won’t be. The coffin sways, shifts in odd swerving motions that make him feel dizzy and sick. The world around him is muffled, it makes no sense that the dead should be resting in a soundproof box. 

Eventually, after a pause in movement, there is another shudder. Martin feels himself sway as though he were in a boat, the motion exaggerated in the darkness. Then a shout. Then, he falls. It’s a short fall that knocks the wind out of him in terror, his hands meeting the lid far too soon. 

Martin waits, keeping time with his heartbeat. When the coffin cracks open and light filters in, Martin can only blink the tears from his eyes. 

Jonathan Sims comes into focus, the light soft against his hair and cheeks. Martin’s breath catches. Jon stares down at him, eyes wide and hair in disarray with his neat shirt all rumpled. His tie is thrown over his shoulder and his chest is heaving as though he’s run miles to get there. 

He is beautiful and he is brave, and Martin K. Blackwood falls a little in love with the man. 

“Are you alright?” Jon pushes through, his words are tight. Martin wipes his eyes as he sits up, unable to stop his awed smile. 

“I’m okay. You-You came back…” Martin says, voice far too watery for such a simple reunion. He knew Jon would be back, he just knew it. But fear is a difficult thing to fight.

Jon blinks, looking taken aback. When he speaks, it’s with the utmost sincerity that nearly knocks Martin down into his coffin again. 

“Of course, I’ll always go where you are,” Jon says, easy as that. And then he shakes himself, urgently speaking. “Can you stand? We need to go, now.”

Martin nods, shuffling his way out of the plush coffin and stepping onto the grassy knoll around him. 

A nervous chuckle falls from his lips as he takes in his surroundings. His coffin is in the process of being lowered into his open grave. There is a simple tombstone with his name on it. There’s nothing else. Just his name and the date of his birth, the date of his death. Nothing about being a son, or a friend, or a life at all. Just a start and an end.

In the distance, something is burning. 

“Look!” Martin gasps, turning to Jon. “There’s a truck on fire!”

“Yes, I am aware,” Jon snaps, as does the coffin lid as he drops it back in place. “Thus the need for us to go. Preferably now.”

Not the reaction Martin had been expecting, and he turns back to look before the implications catch up to him. “Wait...Jon did you-?”

“You seem alright to move.” Jon interrupts him and starts his way forward. “Less talking. More walking.” 

“W-What?” Martin hurries after him. Although Jon is a head shorter than him, he is a very fast walker. They make it off the cemetery and out of the surrounding residential area when Jon asks for his phone. Sufficiently out of breath, Martin hands it over without a thought to all the embarrassing things he’d written until Jon’s eyes lock onto the screen.

Martin’s watched him read before. It's like watching a sponge soak up water, the way Jon just absorbs words. 

“Please don’t.” He says, but when Jon’s eyes flick back to him, a look of guilt flashing over his face, Martin knows it’s too late. 

“I'm getting us an uber.” He says instead, tapping away at his phone while Martin tries to compose himself. 

“So….A fire?” He starts and Jon goes stiff. 

“I needed a distraction.”

“So you set an entire truck on fire.” 

“Well, it worked, didn’t it?” Jon retorted, as though it was an obvious logical conclusion to reach. Martin can’t help a spluttered laugh at that, it quickly turns into an attempt to stifle his giggles. 

“I’m sorry, I don’t- I’m very grateful, Jon,” Martin says, and he likes the weight of Jon’s name. “This is-I mean, I can’t believe you did that! That’s a wonderful development.” 

“Oh, you don’t need to be so pleased,” Jon responds, rolling his eyes in what Martin knows is an attempt to keep collected. “I just- I mean they were going to bury you and that-I wasn’t going to let that happen. No way in hell.” He says, determined. Martin smiles.

When he looks at him, cheeks flushed, Martin decides falling in love with Jonathan Sims again might be the best way to start his second shot at life.

Chapter Text

“You uh, you really clocked out there, didn’t you?” Martin asks, light and teasing. Jon flushes, pushing the door of his flat open to avoid looking at the man. 

“It’s a condition.” He lies. It feels better than the truth, which is that his co-worker and friend has him trained in some Pavlov-esque state to sleep when a car ride lasts more than ten minutes. Martin shoots him a concerned look from where he hovers by the door. “I’m-That wasn’t true.” Then, “Are you a vampire? Do you need permission to enter?”

“Wha-Jon!” Martin startles, but he crosses into Jon’s flat before the reality of the situation hits Jon like a train where there shouldn’t be one. 

His flat is tidy. There is just enough disorder to prove that someone lives there, but all dishes are clean and the papers that are normally scattered about the kitchen and coffee table are all stacked carefully. Jon sighs, congratulating his past self on the simple task of functioning as a human being at some point.

If he had known that Martin K. Blackwood would be back in his life, in his home , then he might have doubled down on a cleaning spree. But as Martin looks around, polite curiosity on his face, Jon can’t help wonder what exactly his flat says about him.

It feels a bit unfair, given that Jon has already seen and judged -harshly, unknowingly - Martin’s own taste and style. He doubts Mrs. Blackwood allowed for loud forms of expression, but he hopes his own tastes aren’t too offensive to Martin’s eyes. 

“It’s like an old man tried making a bachelor pad,” Martin says, startling a snort from Jon.

“It’s not that bad.” He argues, “Besides, I’m younger than you .”

Martin shrugs, a smile on his lips. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

And isn’t that something? Jon sets off towards the kitchen, face warm as he starts about making tea. It’s easier to do something with his hands than to think about how a simple twitch of the lips can be so endearing. It’s been years . “How do you take your tea?” 

“Just a bit of sugar,” Martin calls. He’s still standing about, which lends to the sudden awkward air around them. 

“Take a seat, Martin.” Jon tries, reaching for his loose-leaf. “Is oolong alright?”

“Uh-Um, yeah, that’s good!” Martin says, moving to sit at the far end of the sofa. The safest bet, Jon agrees. He grabs a pack of biscuits and the mug of tea before placing them a safe distance from Martin on the table. For his part, Martin doesn’t reach for either until Jon is seated on the opposite end. 

“Thank you,” He says softly, taking a tentative sip from his mug with a small hum. Then, he takes a bite of the biscuit and Jon realizes that he is hungry too. 

“We can get take-out later,” Jon informs him, which is enough to surprise Martin into looking at him. “What?”

“N-Nothing.” He stutters, quickly looking away. Jon raises a brow at him, eyes intent on the man until Martin cracks. It always worked before, and Jon feels a bit smug to find it working now. 

“It’s just-” He starts, a hand raising to the back of his neck, “I-I don’t really know where to go? I don’t-don’t think I can just explain away the whole...dying...bit.” He turns to Jon but his eyes do not meet his. “You’ve already done so much for me, I really don’t want to impose. I-I just. Could I...Stay? F-For a day or two, I promise.” He rushes to finish and Jon is reminded in horrible detail of Mrs. Blackwood’s statement.

Twenty years is a long time for the world to hurt someone in irreversible and terrible ways. If his mother didn’t bother to hide the disdain for her own son from strangers, Jon can hardly imagine what the years at her side have done to him. 

“Hey,” He starts, resting a hand a safe distance from him. “You’re welcome here, Martin. I-I’m glad that you are here. There’s-There’s no deadline for you to leave, truly.”

“I don’t want to impose,” Martin repeats, a different sort of stiffness in his arms and face. Jon’s surprised to see it, it’s been years since he’s seen that look of panic. If anyone should be ashamed, it’s him . Not Martin. 

“I want you here.” He confesses, and it startles both of them. “W-What I mean is. Please stay as long as you like. As long as you are comfortable. Be it a day, a month, or a year. If you like, I can help you find accommodations. But you did quite literally just return from the dead. Give yourself a chance to rest?” The words feel awkward in his mouth. Jon’s never been one for comfort. Speaking his emotions has always felt like pulling out teeth, although losing a tooth feels preferable right about now. The thought of Martin -sweet smiled Martin with his warm eyes and abundance of freckles - feeling unwelcome in Jon’s flat, well that is simply too much. 

Even after all the words he’s spilled, Martin still looks concerned. “If you’re sure-”

“I am.” 

Martin’s face does a funny thing. His eyebrows go up and his jaw seems to drop. Jon wishes he could just know what it means. Wishes he could infer it, understand it, the longer Martin just stares at him. 

Jon breaks first, turning his attention towards his dingy television. Then he remembers.

“I do have one more thing to say.”

“Oh!” Martin startles. “Oh-About, um…” He motions to the space between them, and Jon nods.

“Well yes, we cannot touch. That much has been stated. I just want to ensure that while you stay here, we are as careful as possible. We can devise a system for alerting each other of our presence if necessary, but my flat isn’t that big. I doubt it will be too much an issue.” 

Martin purses his lips for a moment, averting his eyes again before he makes a valiant attempt at a smile. “We can wear slippers with little bells on them, like cats.” 

“Not a bad idea, actually.” Jon nods. “I’ll look into it.”

What Martin wanted to discuss, more than anything, was the simple devotion on Jonathan Sims’ face when he looked down at him. The sun had been shining on the hill that meant to be his final resting place, but the warmth of life had tumbled down and forced him to hold onto his choice when Jon smiled at him.

It’s embarrassing. It’s ridiculous. It’s utterly strange to be sitting there on Jon’s sofa, drinking tea he hates and eating biscuits while his heart hammers away in his chest because Jon’s put his hair up. In some ways, it feels like it’s any other day and they are children again, waiting at one another’s homes for an adult to arrive. The television is on, Jon having offered to watch a documentary with him to help them settle around each other. His comments are informative, a bit snobby, and mostly very fun.

Maybe...Maybe, Martin reasons to himself, Jon is just like that with everyone. He had been a sweet, loyal, pain in the ass as a kid. Nothing there has seemed to change. 

So. 

Martin nibbles on his biscuit and drinks oolong pretending it doesn’t remind him of his mother. 

His mother . 

“Ugh.” A blinding flash of panic leaves him dizzy, numbing his fingertips as he sets the mug back onto the table.

“Are you alright?” Jon turns to him, deep brown eyes full of worry. And it’s-

Jon . Jon. Jon had been the only one in the funeral home. No mention of his mother as he was about to be buried . His gravestone was so simple. So lonely. Martin bites his cheek, rises to his feet as the world sways around him. He’s so rude, he can hear his mother chide him, to leave Jon like that as he rushes down the only hall in the flat. Jon’s right, it’s not very big. But it certainly is nicer than that decrepit miserable box he left his mother in.

Like the box she abandoned you in? His mind helpfully supplies. 

He makes it to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him as he holds onto the wall while trying to draw in a breath. How could he move forward when his mother was still stuck, what sort of second life could he lead if it meant leaving her behind?

“Martin?” A small knock comes from the door. Jon sounds afraid, because of course he does. 

“I’m fine,” He chokes out, trying to remember that breathing technique he read about somewhere. 

“You don’t sound fine.” Jon points out helpfully. Martin waits for the reprimand, for the knocking. He waits for Jon to call him out, to tell him to stop being silly. You got the attention you wanted, didn’t you ? His mother’s voice rings out in his head and he wants to say that’s not fair. You can’t exactly fake dying , can you?

“Martin?” After a moment, Jon’s voice rings out again. Soft, careful. Martin doesn’t deserve that treatment. 

“I’m sorry,” He says, voice hoarse as he wipes the tears from his eyes. Silence follows. And then shame. He cracks the door open, “I’m so sorry. I-I’m sorry.” 

Jon stares at him. There’s a glass of water in one hand and a felt blanket in the other. Jon holds them up, not out to Martin, just up as though to let him know they’re meant for him. 

“How did you know I was dead?” Martin asks, “Nothing, there’s nothing about me in the news.”

And then Jon goes still, somber. He opens his mouth, closes it, and angles himself towards the living room. “I believe this is a conversation best had sitting down.”

Jon explains. 

His work. His odd investigations with a friend and co-worker Melanie King, whom Martin recognizes from youtube. He explains that his mother called them to investigate her son’s mysterious disappearance and death because the only way she’d get the money for his passing was if he didn’t-

“I’m-” Martin feels numb, nauseous. It seems fitting that his life would be a sum of nothing. 

“Do you?” Jon asks gently, “Remember how you died?”

There was nothing. Just as it feels now. Just nothing, inside and out. The world passed him by, a terrible reflection of his loneliness. 

“Martin?” Something soft hits his arm. Looking down, the blanket has been haphazardly thrown across him with Jon holding on to the smallest corner a safe distance away. “We don’t-there’s no need to talk about it now. You’ve had-had a far too difficult day, to begin with.”

Martin means to apologize. He means to say something, anything that hints to regret for his outburst. It’s been twenty years and the first thing he does when alone with Jon is break down, and that has to be the worst thing Jon’s seen. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

Except. Except Jon stands to carefully throw the other end of the blanket over Martin’s shoulder. It lands odd, given the distance. 

“Only if you want to,” Jon says, like a reminder. “I might say I quite like having you in my hair, Martin.”

“We don’t-Don’t know each other, Jon.”

“No,” Jon agrees, but his voice is soft and warm. “But I would like to learn.” 

“Jon…”

“Let’s be-We can start over. Friends, you and me? We’ll take it slow if you like.”

And he wouldn’t. Not when it comes to Jon. 

“I wish we never lost touch with each other.” He says, wiping his eyes with a corner of the blanket. “I think you and grandpa were the last honest good things in my life.”

It feels like a petulant thing to say. Jon looks stricken, and Martin knows that he is being dramatic. His life was fine. It wasn’t anything to brag about. But it wasn’t the worst. It just wasn’t the best, either. He’s just hurt that his mother didn’t even say goodbye.

“I-” Jon stops. He looks at Martin, truly looks at him. “When I saw Mrs. Blackwood and I realized that you had passed. I-I never realized just how often the thought of you brought me comfort, until then. I thought of my friend, out there in the world. From time to time. And I would-would feel content. Just knowing you were out there, it-” He pauses, nervously chipping away his dark nail polish. “I don’t mean to be...I know you are mourning the life you’ve lost” - Martin feels those words hit him in the chest, calling attention to the specific wound of his heart- “But I truly hope that this second life, if it can be anything to you at all, is better. Is-Is the life you deserve . I don’t know what we can do about your mother, but-but we’ll figure it out.”

Martin wants to undermine his words. It would be so easy to think of it as Jon just trying to comfort him. But Jon hasn’t changed as much as he could have. He’s always been rather easy to read, and at times it could be so infuriating, like when Martin wants to think he’s lying. 

“You were my first love.” He confesses quietly. It feels right, in that moment of raw vulnerability. It sounds a bit like a reason for Jon to leave him behind when he says it like that. He doesn’t expect Jon to smirk at him, eyes full of pride as though he’s won.

“I believe I was also your first kiss.” He says, back straightening as though it’s anything to preen about. 

And isn’t that something? Martin blinks and forgets his sorrow. Forgets his mother. Because Jon looks so proud and he is an endearing sentimental fool and Martin, years later, still finds his heart blooming at the sight of his joy. 

This time, when Martin brings a hand to his face, it’s an attempt to save Jon some dignity as he laughs. A small snort that becomes a full-blown belly laugh. It’s good. It’s already better. The tears that prick at his eyes no longer carry his sorrow, but the surprising glee of being in love with a dork . 

Martin’s laughing at him. 

Jon has hurt him so many times now. He’s lied to him, tricked him, and stolen his heart as a dastardly youth who didn’t know better. Martin deserves more than that. He hadn’t meant to make him laugh - he’d simply been so caught up in that silly childhood memory to think what it might mean in the context of their current conversation.

All at once, he remembers that he should be ashamed. He’s cost someone their life, and for what? A man he hasn’t met in over twenty years? A man who laughs at him?

Jon is supposed to be ashamed. He’s supposed to be guilt-ridden. 

Martin laughs and Jon brings a hand to hide his enamored smile. 

Twenty years ago, a boy moved to Bournemouth and Jon learned how to live with his feet planted on the ground rather than consumed by the vines of terror that twisted and tormented him. There had been a human fear about the boy who had seen a different sort of humanity, a different sort of life. Yet he still found it in his stubborn heart to hope. To live, regardless of the world pushing him down. 

“You were mine too, on both accounts.” He says as Martin’s laugh dies down. Jon basks in the soft hazy smile that Martin shoots him. 

“Here I thought I was the romantic.” 

“Reading Keats a romantic does not make you-”

“You leave Keats out of this!” Martin gasps, mock offense coloring his words.

“Oh, sorry to offend your dearest friend.”

“Jon!” Martin splutters, laughing again. His name sounds nice in Martin’s voice. Safe, warm, treasured. Jon tucks that thought away with that little tendril of guilt desperately calling for his attention. 

Jon lingers at the sight of Martin’s red face, his freckles washed out and his hair in disarray. Then, Martin reaches for his mug, takes a sip, and makes a face. 

“It’s gone cold?” He asks, already getting back up to his feet. Martin stares, then seems to make up his mind as he turns to Jon.

“It’s mom’s favorite.” He confesses, looking a bit regretful. “I actually hate oolong.” 

“W-What, wait-” Jon balks at that, “You were just going to drink that?” 

“Was,” Martin confirms with a grimace and a nod.

Jon huffs a laugh, glad for at least one easy solution. “I might have some earl grey about.” 

“Ooh, breaking out the fancy stuff!” 

“Shut up, Martin.” Jon rolls his eyes as Martin chuckles, his eyes crinkling. It’s a good look on him. 

Jon forgets the guilt, the sorrow, the twisting fear. Regret will never find a perch in his heart, not when Martin looks so full of life. The sadness, the hurt, the joy, the will to continue. 

Jon knows with the steadfast certainty that he will never and could never regret Martin K. Blackwood.

Chapter Text

Jon wakes at five in the morning, mind on which statement immediately requires his attention. It’s as he’s swinging his legs out of bed that the prior night's events return to him.

Martin. His distant eyes, the colorless expression as he processed his death and new future. The way his laugh filled the empty flat and tugged at the soft being of his heart.

Carefully, Jon tip-toes out of his room, peeking towards the sofa where Martin has tried to fit the expanse of his body onto it. Even Jon struggles with it at times, and he cannot help a sympathetic cringe for Martin’s neck. His eyes catch on the softness of Martin’s face, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed. Life, even in sleep, looks good on him.

Jon returns to his room, making another snap decision that just feels right. He emails Elias that he will be taking two days off with plans to work from home. 

Martin wakes at nine. Jon is at the kitchen table, statements askew around him.

“Good morning,” Jon says, eyes hardly leaving the page. “Were you tired?” 

Martin grumbles something under his breath before nodding. “Honestly? Just not a morning person.” 

Jon smiles at the confession, looking up to see a moody Martin. He looks younger like that, his disdain for waking announced on his face. 

They spend their first morning chatting over a quick breakfast. Jon is pleasantly surprised by how easy it is, moving around one another, talking about the past. Hearing Martin’s life from him rather than his mother.

Noon is a shopping trip, They don’t get everything at once, but they return with the essentials and a few changes of clothes for Martin.

It is endlessly fascinating how different the city feels when he’s walking it with Martin, He’s walked it thousands of times with Tim and Sasha, Georgie and Melanie, or simply on his own.

Martin points out little things as if they matter. The way he does it, Jon can only nod along and understand that they have always mattered. He is lucky to finally see it too. And as he catches Martin watching him mid-rant about emulsifiers, Jon knows Martin feels that way too.

Although they walk with a distance between them, the sun shines on them both and that itself feels like a connection enough.

The second day is more of the same. Morning chats, a quicker shopping trip. Jon sneaks in a few things: a worn jacket, a mug with a pun on it, and a vase for flowers. Martin is bashful when he discovers them, but he handles each object with a sort of tender reverence. They do not buy carnations. 

They return home, and it is slowly becoming a home for the both of them. It will take more than two days, but Jon is certain of their ability. His flat is quickly becoming theirs . Martin’s long-term welcome there becomes a bit more cemented, and they both breathe easier for it.

He offers Martin his room, his bed, and Martin refuses, insisting that the small sofa is fine enough. Then Jon dedicates the rest of the day to work. 

At seemingly sporadic times, Martin will interrupt Jon with a glass of tea or water. Biscuits and sliced apples appear around the same time. Jon finds himself mindlessly reaching over to munch on a snack while he works, and it isn’t until they’re getting ready for bed that he realizes there’s no headache threatening to form. 

Jon peeks around the corner to catch Martin as he spreads a blanket over the sofa, his eyes lighting up when he catches Jon. 

“Good night, Martin,” Jon says, voice giving away his besotted nature.

“Good night, Jon,” Martin responds, voice just about the same.

“Hey, boss!” Timothy Stoker’s head shoots up from behind his computer, and with it comes a blinding smile. It is far too early in the morning for it. It’s not that Jon has adopted Martin’s late morning routine - it has, after all, only been a few days - it is simply that he’s feeling a little off and he’s decided that it’s alright to feel it. Smiles happen after nine and they feel best when they come from Martin. Unfortunately for him, the other man hadn’t been awake by the time Jon set off to work, so the only interaction he had was calling out a goodbye to Martin and getting a gruff sort of noise in acknowledgement. 

“Did you get the report I sent?” Tim continues eagerly. 

“It’s a gross one,” Sasha claims, eyes firmly glued to her screen. Considering all the gross things they’ve had to deal with in the past, even while in research, he really doesn’t want to know what could warrant that judgement. 

“The Timothy Hodge statement?” He asks warily. Tim gleefully nods in response and Jon swears he sees some sort of playful malice in his eyes. He thanks them for the warning and carries on with his day,

He tries to keep professional while recording the statement.

It leaves his skin crawling, a horrible mixture of that familiar, ever-present fear of dying turning over on itself into something new, something waiting. Eyes burn through his skull and Jon firmly slams the door on that something threatening to overwhelm him. Lies, he calls it, saying out loud like some sort of charm to protect himself, to remind himself of where he is and who he is. 

“You’re right,” He tells Sasha as they all pack up at the end of the day. “It was vile .”

“Oh god, wasn’t it?” Tim interjects. “The way she writhed like worms ? And he was into that! Then boom!” He mimics an explosion with his hands and gives a full-body shiver. 

Both Jon and Sasha make a face. 

“How can something burn for a long time, and then nothing actually have, you know, burned?” Sasha asks, frustrated by the lack of evidence. “Did you notice Jane Prentiss?”

“Yeah,” Tim exhales, “That was weird, right? I mean, kinda stole the show, that one.”

They all remember the stories and rumors of what happened when Jane Prentiss came to the institute. Jon knows it’s fresh on their minds, the same as it is in his.

“We should keep an eye out for any statements concerning Jane Prentiss going forward. Perhaps we can...organize all of that mess into something with a semblance of coherence.” 

The two of them nod, then Tim makes a face at him, as though scandalized. “Are you going home early?”

Jon splutters. “Yes?”

“Wow.”

“What-It's- The workday is over?” 

“Ooooh, spooky!”Sasha wiggles her fingers at him as though telling a story to a child. “Jon Sims takes a break from work and then leaves on time? Are you sure we don’t have a doppelganger on our hands?” She shoots Tim a conspiratorial glance.  Jon knows better than to stay after that. Their banter always turns into drinks after work, and Jon is eager to get home, 

“I’m sorry- Worms? ” Martin blanches, eyes threatening to bulge out of his head. “That’s the sort of-of supernatural- I mean esoteric things you work with?” 

Jon snorts, appreciative of Martin’s reaction to the worm statement. The slight judgment that follows is, somehow, also welcome given how comfortable Martin looks at the table. “Sometimes stories are nonsense, and then they’re nonsense .”

“Eugh,” Martin focuses on his take-out and Jon allows his eyes to linger as he traces the space Martin takes up. There’s a tuft of curls behind his ear that refuses to settle down, Jon is readily charmed by it. “I just-Ew. How do you even move on from that?”

Jon laughs again before Martin shoots him a look. 

“What? You can’t believe it’s real, can you?” He asks, but Martin manages to double down with his look alone. 

It’s ridiculous. Jon should roll his eyes and scoff. Instead, he finds himself leaning forward, resting his cheek on his hand as he allows himself to be caught. There’s something to admire in Martin’s rising stubbornness. His sense of the world differs from Jon’s but it all rounds out in the end. 

“I’ll tell you more stories if you like. So you can see how outlandish they are.”

“Just because you’ve become desensitized, doesn’t make all those statements fake,” Martin says, and the words are a shock to Jon. It’s possibly a bit more honest than he’d like. Not that Martin - or anyone - would know. 

“And how do you know that?” Jon challenges, keeping his voice light. 

“Because I’m alive,” He answers, assured and steady. And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Jon’s never allows himself to wonder what his ability might mean for all the monsters that would happily feast on him. He returns his attention to his food and they eat in silence until he catches Martin’s gaze on him.

He can’t help but fluster under the weight of that warmth, Jon wouldn’t dare call it by name, but he recognizes it from all the times he’s done the same. 

“Enough.” He flushes, tossing a napkin at Martin, who laughs in turn and hides his smile behind a hand. 

“It's just, you should have seen your face!” Martin starts, “It was kind of adorable.”

“I-” Jon’s mind goes blank. He has to force the words, “I’m not adorable,” through his teeth as he tries to maintain some semblance of dignity. 

“Sure you are,” Martin says easily. “Like a kid wondering if there might be a monster under his bed after all. Honestly, if I was in your line of work, I wouldn’t want to think about it either.”

“I didn’t say that,” Jon tries.

“Didn’t have to,” There's no judgment, just acceptance., “You’ve always been a bit of an open book.”

“...Statement ends.”

Jon sighs, The day had started so well. 

Martin had been awake at Jon’s time, clearly doing everything in his power to remain positive and not regret his decision. He’d slumped back onto the sofa as Jon left though, the last thing Jon heard as he closed the door was the soft oomph of his body hitting the cushions. 

The effort itself was nice.

But a series of statements had been marked inconsistent by a couple of students and now Jon was getting emails reprimanding him for the errors made by his predecessor. HR had sent him another set of complaints against him from past statement makers. Jon knows he’s difficult, but he doesn’t understand why he should fake sincerity towards people who view him as a joke, as if their stories of haunted toilets or spooky trees had any place in an academic institute. As an extra unwanted treat, he received an email from Elias remarking on him leaving early -that is, on time - when there was still so much work to get done. 

Jon checked his contract, there is nothing about required overtime. It-Well, Jon didn’t want Martin to get bored. He knows it’s a silly thought, but some part of him that he can’t make sense of is terrified that Martin will somehow forget him. 

Ridiculous, he knows. Jon’s never been one to cling, but his relationship with Martin is new and distinctly different.

Jon makes a face. Relationship .

“Damn.”

The door kicks open. It’s happened enough times that he doesn’t bother to be surprised when Melanie King looms over him. She likes to do so whenever he is sitting, the only time she actually can. Belatedly, Sasha calls out in a sing-song voice “Mel’s here!”

“Damn right I am.” She huffs, glaring down at him. “What the hell , Sims?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that.” He all but groans. An open book, Martin had called him. Sure, outright lying wasn’t his specialty, but he was down right stubborn if he wanted to be. 

“Three days, gone! All I get is a shitty apology as though I didn’t spend two hours!Two hours waiting for you in that blasted parking lot!” If she could, he is certain she would be shaking him. “God if it weren’t for Georgie-!” She fumes.

“I know, I know. You’ve made it pretty clear that-”

“I-It’s just you ! You’re so inconsiderate and bloody rude, did you even manage to get anything good out of Blackwood? Or was it all just a waste.” 

Blackwood . Jon frowns, lips pressed together at the sour way she says Martin’s name. He can’t imagine how happy she would be to rub his face in how little information he’d gotten from Martin, but there’s nothing else he can say for it.

The memory of his pale face, his shaking hands, the lonely reality of his funeral. 

“When I asked him, he shut down and could not tell me anything. I could not demand more from someone who has just learned they’re dead,” He says, honestly. 

Melanie glares. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t? I told you, told you not to ruin our lead!”

“If you think I am so unpleasant that I cannot even get through one minute in the most sensitive of times, then you are welcome to find a new partner for...whatever it is that you even do.”  It’s the wrong thing to say. He knows it is. But of all the things to dig at - leaving her behind, going silent for days - it’s that he apparently cannot be useful beyond the act of reviving. Can’t be trusted to open his mouth, to just be .

Nevermind that Martin- he knows it’s unfair to blame her, that she cannot know what Martin means to him, but the dig still hurts. Martin wouldn’t hate him, not for being a little unpleasant of all things when there’s so much more.

But Jon knows he isn’t as unpleasant as to be worth immediate scorn. He wishes Melanie wouldn’t mention it so often.

Melanie clenches her jaw, glaring at him. 

Then there’s a knock at his door. 

Sasha peers in, looking at them both with a look that reads unimpressed. “Jon, you have someone here to give a statement.”

Behind her stands a pretty woman with dark hair and heavy eyes that stare him down. 

From her wafts that same jolting loneliness that shocked Jon in Martin’s flat. He stares, tensing as waves of fear cascade from her to surround and coil around him. It threatens to drag him down, to sink him where he is without a lifeline. No thrashing about could save him, no one alive would know of his demise. 

“None of the recording equipment worked,” Sasha informs him, unaware of his internal dilemma. From his side, Melanie scoffs, “Wow, some institute.” 

Jon shoots her a glare, but the woman speaks before he can. 

“I don’t- I don’t care anymore.” She says, sounding just as exhausted and miserable as he might expect. “I just- no one else believes me, I’m- At this point I’m just desperate alright?” 

“You’ve spoken to others?” He asks, and when her eyes focus on him he remembers Martin’s pale face once more.

“Yes.” Her eyes water, but no tears fall. She is mist held together, she is a dam threatening to burst. “They didn’t believe me,” When she speaks, her voice is near hollow , “Will you?”

Like asking for a lifesaver in the middle of the ocean. Jon takes a breath before he stands, motioning for Sasha and Melanie to leave them, “Take a seat, Miss...?”

“Naomi Herne,” She introduces herself, taking a seat in front of Jon. “You’ll believe me, then?”

Because I’m alive .  Jon bites his cheek and makes his choice.

“Yes,” Jon says with a sense of finality. Mrs. Herne almost bowls over, as though the simple word had lifted a weight from her, “Welcome to the Magnus Institute, I’ll take your statement, then.”

Chapter Text

It is a mistake to let Ms. Herne give her statement.

Jon has never pretended to be a brave man, but there is something particularly sinister about the tale Ms. Herne weaves. 

She leaves looking better, the color returns to her face, and there is silent gratitude in her eyes as Jon reaffirms his belief in her story. It feels like a dangerous thing to do, like a nod to the thing that watches them in the archives. It has never cared for his bravado, after all, only his recognition. 

He won’t accept that, won’t give it what it wants, but he’ll accept that Ms. Herne is mourning and that a desperate mind can do many things.

He would know.

Jon spends the rest of his day transcribing the statement and setting about drafting a research plan. Ms. Herne doesn’t deserve an outright dismissal, not when the tale she spins is laced through with loss and sorrow. Still, he doesn’t believe they have anything on weather-affected hauntings. Certainly, fog and cemeteries go hand in hand, but the fog itself is hardly the malicious factor in those stories.

At some point, Melanie pops back in with a frown and a wrapped sandwich from the canteen. She shares half of it and Jon motions for her to sit on the other side of his desk. He works, she’s on her phone, and the tense silence mellows out to their comfortable brand of camaraderie. It is enough of an apology for both of them.

“Wow, you look exhausted,” Martin walks down the hall, hands working a towel through his damp hair. Jon’s at the table eating cold take-out and forcing his eyes to stay open. 

“Astute observation,” Jon snips, then nods at the food in front of him. “Thank you for getting my order. I didn’t mean to be home so late.”

“Glad I got it right,” Martin takes a seat at his sofa, “Extra spicy, right?”

“ Extra -extra,” Jon corrects and Martin snaps his fingers. 

“Next time for sure,” He smiles at Jon, who lets himself linger on both the promise of more tomorrows and on Martin’s handsome smile. His beard is growing in, giving the man a rugged sort of look. It’s dashing, charming, and Jon is taken with him. Martin catches his eyes and goes red, raising a hand to shield his face with a laugh. “Stop that.”

“Oh, you can do it but I can’t?,” Jon teases, smiling to himself as he takes another bite of his meal. Between the two of them, Jon hadn’t expected Martin to be the bashful sort. Love comes barreling down at them and Jon jumps in front of it with arms open, ready to catch it. Martin flinches first, as if unsure of its gentle strength when it arrives. 

"It's not the same," Martin flusters, and Jon nods sagely in response to such a sound argument.

“I don’t actually mind it,” Martin had said in the silent vulnerability of the night. “It’s nice to feel seen, especially when it’s you.”

“Well,” Jon had said, feeling brave and bold and wanted, “I like looking at you.”

“So,” Martin interrupts the memory, “Why so tired?”

“Oh, just-” Jon starts, then feels himself stop as the statement flits about his mind. It’s not a fun story, not a strange or remarkable one. It’s just sad. “-Just a long day, I suppose.”

Martin shoots him a look, concern coloring his face in a way that makes Jon want to lean into his side, rest his head against his shoulder. Instead, Martin crosses the short distance between the living room and the kitchen to sit opposite Jon. His hand reaches out, landing a safe long distance away from his own. 

“Do you want me to go fight your boss for you?” He asks, startling a laugh from Jon. “I’m serious Jon, they’re running you ragged!”

“I’m sure he wouldn't stand a chance,” Jon laughs, “No, no...No need for that just yet. It’s just-” He sighs, resting his elbow on the table- “We had a difficult statement, that’s all. A woman came in after losing her fiance, and it- Well, it was tragic. She was so heartbroken.”

Martin sobers at that, a somber expression crosses his face.

“Yeah,” There isn’t anything else to say, Jon knows that. No word on earth could truly capture the shared sense of loss between strangers. “That’s why...Listen, I know you don’t want to kick me out of my room , but I-I’m going to need the kitchen. And the living room. For work.”

Before Martin, working at home until the late hours of the night had been the norm for Jon. When Tim and Sasha hounded him to leave early or dragged him out for drinks, he could return home and spread his paperwork across the tables. 

“Mostly, we deal with old dusty accounts or nonsense like worms and ghouls that spend their time in the alleyways. But-I would like to give this case my full attention, and if that means staying late at the office to do so, I don’t mind that either.”

“I-” Martin widens his eyes at him, Jon belatedly realizing the ultimatum he’s presented to him. His misstep must show, or Martin must understand it somehow because he grumbles and runs a hand through his damp hair. “Something tells me that office of yours might as well have a cot and a kitchenette.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon scoffs, taking another bite of his food, “The cot goes in document storage.”

“J-Jon!” 

They come to an agreement. Martin, aghast that Jon would sleep in a cold dingy office without a second thought to his health, agrees to take Jon’s room. Jon’s victory is short-lived, with Martin’s condition being that they only switch sleeping arrangements for cases such as this.

“I mean, would you know?” Jon tries, innocently. “What if I have a case like this all the time?”

“You would lie to me?” Martin asks, surprised and hurt.

He is joking. Jon knows this. But his voice thick with faux sorrow strikes him like a blow to the chest, casting light on all the lies he’s already told. Jon’s never had as much to lose as he does now, and he can’t be sure how much longer this fairytale will last.

“No, no I-I wouldn’t.” He lies. 

“Oh Jon, I know,” Martin is quick to assure him, sweeter than Jon could ever deserve. It is a wonderful thing, to be treated as something precious. “I know, it’s fine.”

Jon indulges in the silence that lingers for a moment more before he decides to get to work. Martin helps him clear the table, and then Jon sends him on his way to take care of the bedding while he starts shuffling through his papers.

“I really don’t mind doing that,” He tells Martin, who holds the sheets over his head.

“Least let me make the bed I’m going to lie in,” He huffs.

Jon divvies up the work for his assistants. 

One case very rarely needs all three of them, but he wants to get back to Ms. Herne as quickly as possible with quality results.

Even if those results lean towards nothing. 

He reads through the sparse online database of statements for any similarities, then turns his attention towards the vast library instead. He has better luck there, though not by much.

He jots down a few books for Tim to look over.

Then, Jon decides to do a preliminary search for the family Ms. Herne would have married into, had death not come for her fiance first. 

When conducting online research, Jon isn’t Sasha. He can’t hack into databases or work through the code of a website to grant him free access. But he’s good enough that he knows, he knows , he should be able to find something about a supposed wealthy family that doesn’t end with Evan’s social media pages.

Taking a chance, he searches Lukas Family and is mildly surprised - extremely irritated - to come up with the Magnus Institutes donor’s page. It’s something. At least.

And then things go very badly from there.

Nathaniel Lukas, head of Solus Shipping LLC, died on the very day they buried his estranged nephew. Ms. Herne had seen him the morning of, looking healthy and strong. The time of death as stated on his obituary claims he died around the same time that one beloved Martin K. Blackwood lived past his allotted minute. The man died in the very building Jon allowedMartin to live.

Nathaniel Lukas stares back at him through the screen with accusing eyes.

Jon takes a breath, closes the screen, and presses his knuckles to his eyes. This was not the mystery he was looking to solve. It is not even a mystery worth looking into, his death readily accepted by the Lukas family and Ms. Herne. 

Yet his skin crawls at that pinprick sensation, an oppressive gaze on the nape of his neck that tells him his secret will get out. That someone somewhere knows about his hand in the demise of this man. 

“Stop,” He tells himself, hands tugging at his hair. He knew someone paid the price for Martin, knowing who it is doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t add or detract from the blood on his hands. The life he’s allowed Martin to live is still built on the same lies as before and there is no going back.

He’s made his choice. Martin sleeps soundly at the end of the hall and Jon will gladly live with that.

Jon dreams of graves.

He dreams of a faceless forsaken family looming, overlooking. 

He dreams of Niomi Herne running. Of an overwhelming inescapable fog. It will drag her down. It will keep her. 

He dreams of an open grave, a fresh headstone. 

Naomi Herne does not escape this time. She lives this on loop, falling into the grave’s foggy abyss.

Before Jon wakes, Naomi falls once more. Her eyes catch his, sparking with recognition.

She screams for help.

“-on? Jon!” 

Something soft smacks the back of his head, and Jon shoots up in his seat to glare daggers at whoever woke him. 

Martin stares back, looking well-rested and disgruntled with a pillow in his arms. The side of his hair is sleep pressed to his head, and Jon is very charmed. 

Except.

“Why are you awake so early?” He fusses, gathering his notes to make room for him. The resulting look of panic that flashes over Martin’s face makes him double-take.

“I’m...I’m up at my normal time? Y-You’re the one who’s up-up late! D-” Martin gapes at him, “Did you fall asleep at the table?”

“W-No!” Martin motions to the table, where his head had previously been resting, “I did go to sleep! I just-well, I just had a bit of trouble staying asleep.”

“Jon…,” Martin starts, seems to think better of it, and sighs, “Alright, alright. Well, no use running out the door now. Go get ready, I’ll make you tea.”

Jon checks the time on his phone, finds it dead, and returns his attention to his laptop. He’s not so late as so warrant concern, but he knows better than to linger. 

“Did you sleep well?” He asks as he gets to his feet. Martin shuffles about the kitchen with a small hum.

“...I did. Thank you,” He relents, making Jon snort in the early hours when sleep has been so coy with him. 

Jon leaves Martin to it, rushing to change into fresh work clothes and running a comb through his hair. Once he deems himself presentable, Jon heads back, hands gathering his hair into a braid.

He stops in his tracks at the sight of Martin, pale as can be, hunched over his work notes. His eyes are trained onto the laptop, and Jon can see the ghostly face of Nathaniel Lukas staring back at them. 

His heart drops.

“Oh uh,” He hurries along, ushering Martin away from the screen. Martin has gathered most of Jon’s notes in his hands, and Jon quickly grabs the rest. “Sorry, you didn’t need to see that, a bit morbid for the morning.”

“Oh, um, yeah.” Martin flinches, avoiding Jon’s eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be nosy. Just...here.” He holds out the pile of notes and Jon takes them carefully.

“I know, it’s fine, really,” He places everything into his work bag. Breakfast is eggs and tea, courtesy of Martin. Their morning is quiet. Martin avoids looking at Jon, and Jon feels exposed and raw. 

He knows. Martin knows . 

Jon sits at his desk, foot thumping anxiously as he stares at the empty page in front of him. His assistants are just a wall away, unaware that his world is crumbling to dust beneath his fingertips. The world has a habit of doing that, continuing despite the worst of tragedies. It stops for no one, especially not Jon.

And Martin knows. 

He knows .

He knows.

It’s a resounding thought. A suffocating thought.

It brings a biting pain to his stomach, makes his skin flush warm. Jon drops his face into his hands, remembering Martin’s frightened face. 

Frightened of him ? Who else has the power to render him a corpse with a simple touch, who else has proven themselves so monstrous as to kill…

“No,” Jon presses his hand to his mouth, the other working through his braided hair. 

Martin was always going to find out. He deserved the truth, from the world or from Jon himself. 

But how does he know? Does he really know?

Was there some sort of secret understanding between the dead, a sort of communication that Jon is unaware of?  

Sweeping dizziness overtakes him and for a moment, Jon wishes all his childhood fears had come true if only to have avoided the untimely death of so many others.

It’s a naive thought, a childish one that has no bearing. Everyone dies eventually, whether by his hand or the hand of some uncaring universe, to think he could have that sort of power is pointless. 

So he lets it go, powerless as he is to stop it. He sits back in his chair, eyes trained up towards the musty ceiling. He’s growing tired of carrying around such secrets.

“Jon? You alright there?” Melanie enters his office, “You look like shit. Two days in a row?”

“Going for a new record,” He says, voice heavy with emotion, “I’ll be fine.”

“Hm...you could have fooled me, are you sure?” She asks delicately, unsure of whether or not this is something she wants to do. They’ve never been good at talking about important things. It’s not who they are, not on their own, and certainly not together.

There are statements to get to. There is research and write-ups to be conducted, a report to hand back to Ms. Herne. Boxes of files and statements to organize, a whole archive to digitize and record.

His office feels far too small and far too full at that moment.

“Martin Blackwood is alive.” He confesses as recognition colors her face. 

Silence fills the room as they stare at one another. Her in shock, and Jon in exhausted acceptance. If his house of cards is going to fall, he might as well get to decide when. So he waits for her shock to turn into a glare, for her anger to spark.

It doesn’t happen.

“You...knew him?” She guesses, voice apprehensive and leaving Jon to startle in his seat, “I’d been wondering why you’d been acting so strange lately. I’m-I’m not going to pretend I’m not furious at you. But I’ve known you long enough to...at least give you the benefit of the doubt? Present your case and all that...”

Right , Jon feels his throat tighten with emotion. She pushes her words out through her teeth, and Jon can appreciate her effort.

“I don’t feel bad for Martin being alive. I-I knew what I was doing, although I am sorry that you were so nearby…”

“Right...Fuck you for that.” She says harshly. He can’t help but flinch. “What would you have told everyone when I died? Oh sorry, Melanie’s gone but here’s Martin! Alright, maybe I am mad. That’s a bloody selfish thing to do Jon! Never thought you were the sentimental type.”

“Uh, I’m very glad it wasn’t you. As for who it was,” Jon pushes the Herne file towards her, Melanie slamming down a hand to stop it.

“Actually, Sims, why did you put my life in danger like that? What could possibly be worth it, I thought you had a code?” She says, sounding hurt and disappointed. He feels properly chastised now. 

He does, he has a strict code of conduct that doesn’t get broken. Hasn’t been broken, save for Martin. But once is already too many times, already another life lost. He swallows, throat dry as he tries to find words for whatever fleeting mess of emotions he’s trying to make sense of. He doesn’t regret it, but he knows he should.

So he starts at the beginning. He starts with his grandmother's bird and the boy that moved in across the street one year who became Jon’s best friend and very first love. Of the death and reanimation of his grandmother, and the terrible way in which he learned his touch came with a price. About the awkward and heavy morning where Martin wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“I’ve already taken so much from him,” Jon says bitterly, and Melanie looks pale in her seat, “I-I couldn’t let stay dead, not after everything I’ve put him through. Some second chance I’ve given him.”

“Okay...I mean I’m still-Still mad! But I guess I get it.”

They sit in silence, Melanie playing with the fray of her jacket. Jon’s not sure what he expected, but he is strangely lighter after finally speaking about his past. He’s not sure if he’s ever done that before, and somehow the world doesn’t feel worse for it. 

His shoulders feel lighter, at least.

“Um,” Melanie breaks the silence, confusion evident on her face, “Not sure how...I mean after all that, how exactly do you piece together that he knows? Like-Okay maybe your work just freaks him out? Put me off enough when we first met, and I’m a ghost hunter. It’s one thing to like horror stories and another to-to actually be in a haunted house.”

“It-He clearly recognized the man! Like-Like they were communicating or something.”

“That sounds ridiculous, you do realize how ridiculous that sounds right?”

“What else could it be?”

“I don't know! He’s your boyfriend you figure it out,” She snaps as Jon goes red.

“H-He’s not-We aren’t-That’s beside the point!”

“Oh gross, go have a crush somewhere else.” 

“I let you go on about Georgie.”

“Because we both know she’s wonderful and lovely.”

“Right, whatever,” Jon rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “None of this helps me. I need to tell him eventually if he hasn’t already figured it out, it’s only fair.”

Melanie hums, fingers tapping away at his desk. “Or.”

“Or?”

“Or never tell him anything! Why would you intentionally dig yourself a grave- or bury yourself in the grave of your own making?” She shakes her head, “If he doesn’t know, there's no need for him to know. Just-Just save yourself the trouble and the heartbreak, got it?”

He’s thought about it before, but that doesn’t feel right. Doesn’t feel honest, it’s not what Martin deserves.

“If this were you and Georgie?” He asks, unsure if he’d like her answer.

Melanie for her part thinks it over. He watches as her brow furrows in thought, glaring at the corner of his desk as though it would catch fire.

“You know what?” She starts slowly, “I don’t know what I would do, which makes me very glad this is a you problem, and not a me one. So, you have my advice. Do with it what you will.”

“Helpful as ever,” He mutters, earning him a crumpled piece of paper tossed at his shoulder. That gnawing sensation settles in his stomach, and though he has no plan for how to manage this, he does feel better. “Thank you, Melanie.” 

There’s a knock at his door. 

“Yeah, don’t mention it,” She says, ignoring the knock. Instead, she taps the file with a knuckle. “So who died?”

“Right,” Jon scoots his chair closer to the desk and they both lean over to look at the files and notes. “His name is Nathaniel Lukas and he was-”

Another knock, this time louder.

“Busy!” Melanie calls back.

“No you're bloody not,” Tim opens the door with a huff, looking back to the bullpen before entering the office. “We have someone here to give a statement. Tried to take it but he seemed pretty adamant about it being the head archivist, so. Be nice, I’m trying to give a good impression, got it?”

“Oh ew, you can’t date statement givers, Tim,” Melanie teases with a snort, and both her and Jon share a glance when Tim goes red.

“You can’t prove anything,” Tim flattens his already pristine shirt, “Anyways, we got work to do, so. Behave?”

“Yes, yes, I’m very capable of doing my job ,” Jon snips, earning him a look from both Tim and Melanie. He shoots her a glare, betrayed.

“Right, well,” Tim puts on his winning smile, steps out of Jon’s office, and calls out, “Martin Blackwood? Mr. Sims can see you now."

Chapter Text

Martin Blackwood is in his archives and Jonathan Sims feels the world threatening to open up below him. With the worst timing in all of history, his heart is still reeling from his conversation with Melanie and his mind is ready to supply the worst-case scenarios for Martin’s presence there below.

There is no immediate reason for him to be there, anything trivial could have waited until after work. 

“He knows,” Jon hears himself say.

“There’s no way he knows,” Melanie whispers back.

Tim gives them a look, prompting them.

“Uh, no nothing,” Jon blanches, clearing his throat as Martin pokes his head into the doorway. His auburn locks have been combed through, just a step above the bedhead Jon is so fond of. “Right, a statement. From Mr. Blackwood.”

“Is now…not a good time?” Martin asks, looking from Jon to Tim and then back as looking for confirmation.

“Now will do just fine,” Jon assures him, gathering up the files he’d been about to share into a neat pile. Melanie shakes her head at him as if he had any say in the matter. “Take a seat, Mr. Blackwood.”

“Fine, but we are continuing this conversation afterward,” Melanie grumbles, rising to her feet with a sigh. “And remember what we talked about.”

She leaves, pushing past Martin with a huff. He can’t overlook her hurt, although the surprised look on Martin’s face pains him. It’s not his fault her life was put in danger, and the anger feels misplaced when Jon’s right there.

Tim shoots Martin an apologetic smile before he pauses to put a hand on Martin’s arm. “We deal with a lot of strange things here, but we do good work, alright? If there’s anything we can do to help, know that we will. You won’t be going through this alone.”

Jon feels his mouth dry, the words are supportive and the gesture kind, but that’s hardly what they do. The first statement Jon has decided to take seriously not just from a professional standpoint, but a personal one might as well end whatever relationship he’s tried to bridge with Martin.

It’s an abysmal track record.

“Thank you,” Martin says, shoulders relaxing as Tim closes the door behind him. It’s the second time Jon’s had to observe Martin in his space, but it feels worlds away from when Martin entered his flat. He fidgets, fingers toying with the fabric of his sleeve.

Jon waits for Martin to gather his thoughts, for the accusations hurled and disappointment made evident. For the disgust of recognition to color Martin’s freckled face.

“Are you alright?” Martin asks instead.

“Why are you here?” Jon responds.

For a moment, Martin looks like he might flee. Which is ridiculous because he’s here of his own accord.

“I uh, I’m honestly not sure? I thought I could- could figure it before I got here,” Martin lets out a single laugh, devoid of humor, “Sorry, I didn’t realize Melanie King would be here…I-I don’t want to cause problems for you that wasn’t the point but-I am sorry.”

“...It’s fine,” Jon gruffs after a moment, shoulders tense as he tries to piece together Martin’s rambling. “She knows about you, I uh, had to discuss something about our situation with someone and-and she seemed the best bet. Since-Since she knows.”

Martin takes a breath at that, cheeks dusting a light shade of pink. Then his expression sobers as he moves to sit in Melanie’s seat. He readies himself, tense as he takes a breath.

“I do need to make a statement-“

“About me?”

“What?” Martin flinches, face going pale as though the thought were repulsive in and of itself, “No! No-Never, Jon, I would never put you in danger like that, not if I could help it! I know I should have waited-“ he takes a breath, calming himself, “-but I couldn’t. Because- see…I do need to make a statement about. I kept thinking, I need to warn you before you got hurt-and I couldn’t wait to do that! But then I- I also need to ask a favor? And I’m not sure what to do. I don’t know who else to turn to.”

“What are you talking about, Martin?” He asks, thoroughly blindsided. A part of him is pleased by the ferocity in Martin’s promise to protect him, but the rest of him is far too aware of how miserable and lost Martin looks. “Whatever you need-”

“I know, I know, Jon. God, I know.” He says it like it’s a burden, a gift, all neatly wrapped up for him to make sense of. “That’s the problem. It’s not-not something you can just say yes to okay? Please hear me out and-and then… ”

He pauses for a second, hands clenching as he thinks over his words. Jon tries to piece together his anxieties of this morning and the reality facing him now, but the more he tries the more tangled it all gets.

“I need you to believe me? Because I’m not-not making it up. Regardless of the rest, just- please?”

“Yes, fine,” Jon says a bit harshly. It seems to knock Martin out of his downward spiral a bit, and Jon is grateful for that. He’s not entirely sure of what he thought would leave Martin’s mouth but this is utterly beyond him.

Martin presses his lips to a thin line before giving a nod. Jon reaches for a tape recorder as Martin’s interest suddenly sparks. It’s like he’s been put under a microscope to be examined, and the one thing he’s done hundreds of times since he’s taken the job suddenly becomes difficult as Jon fiddles to get a fresh tape in.

“It’s archaic but reliable.” He explains, ears burning.

“It’s charming, very retro,” Martin says softly. “I used to record poetry on one of those back home. All good poets love a good tape hiss,” he says, a small smile playing at the edges of his lips. Jon groans at that good naturedly, unbelievably charmed by such a pretentious thing to say, “Um, but-but does it have to be official? I really don’t think leaving a trail is good. Since, since I’m technically dead?”

 “For my ears only then,” Jon notes before clicking the tape on and placing it in the center of the desk. “Statement of Martin K Blackwood regarding?”

“Oh! Regarding…Regarding my employment by Nathaniel Lukas and subsequent disappearance…and resulting death.”

The words settle like a cold stone in Jon’s stomach as Martin begins to speak.

It turns out the Lukas family is wealthy.

Wealthy enough to buy certain buildings in the outskirts of London and do very little with them. The change in ownership is fine, a bit scary at first given how tight money already is, but Martin has managed before and he knows he’ll have to manage again.

They don’t touch anything, not for a long while. Long enough for Martin to forget to worry about the mysterious whims of their new landlords. When the price of rent changes, it’s enough to leave him confused. He discusses the change with his neighbors, the elderly couples, and the young families.

The price goes up. Not a lot, not enough to justify looking for a new flat. He and his neighbors are confused by it, but mostly relieved. Just a small change, just a bit of extra pocket change a month.

The money that went into his lunches, into new clothes, and that already scarce rainy day fund of his.

Like putting a bunch of frogs in a pot of slowly boiling water, the tenants don’t realize. At least, Martin didn’t. Maybe it was easier not to think on it, he admits.

By the time Martin was begging his mother to move out of the flat, the price had changed slowly enough that the thought ‘ this is manageable, I can do this' had become his daily mantra. Just an extra out of his savings, just manageable if he makes food for his mother only and eats canned goods from the church.

His neighbors leave, not all of them, the ones that can. The old couple leaves to live with their grandchildren, the young parents hardly see their kids. Martin takes up an extra shift, manages to snag another job but then his mother is so lonely. He can barely take care of her on his own, juggling thoughtless managers with doctor appointments and medication. Whatever could have gone into saving up to leave goes into hiring a nurse to stay with her.

It’s fine, Martin tells Jon because realistically it wasn’t bad. It was manageable. He could do it, and for a long time, he did.

Five hours of sleep if lucky. A meal if he could manage it.

When the rent goes up one more time Martin feels his resolve break. He begs his mother one more time, but she likes her life in London. She likes her bitter friends from the church, she likes her flat. It’s been hers for so long and she doesn’t want to go. And the nurses there are good to her, she’s not lonely anymore.

They’re good people, Martin will give them that. But he’s too busy to truly know. Too busy to accept their attempts at friendship.

Martin manages another job. His other bosses don’t have time for his sloppy work. They like him, or at least his co-workers are kind enough, but he’s being pulled too far all over and when he finally shatters, Martin finds himself alone.

He’s in the stairwell playing back and forth between two voicemails.

Don’t come in today, we’ll send you the rest of the pay.

Thanks for trying, but it’s not working for us, we’ll give you a glowing recommendation though!

That’s when Nathaniel Lukas shows up.

He’s an old man, terrifying in the way people with power are.

Like they don’t know they’re blood and bone, their minds so far from banal human suffering. Martin doesn’t recognize him, but all it takes is one look at the way the man moves, the way the clothes fit on his shoulders, and the way he gazes around the building like it’s a beetle to crush. Who else could it be but the man making life in the complex so miserable?

They talk.

Martin can’t hide his bitterness. He can feel his youth slipping between his fingers with every hour he spends bending over backward for a low-paying job. For bosses that use him and co-workers that depend on him and a mother who tries so hard not to look at him.

Somehow - Martin can’t recall the details, it’s all such a haze - the conversation ends with Nathaniel Lukas offering him a job. His old chauffeur has gone missing and he needs a new one. He will pay more than Martin can afford to turn down, and he requires very little besides Martin being ready at all times.

He takes the job and it goes well for a while. Mr. Lukas pays well. He hardly requires a lot of driving, so Martin can keep his other jobs and work them around his chauffeur schedule. But the drives are long, long and so silent. Sometimes Martin fears he’s forgotten the old man on some fancy curbside. Sometimes he has to look through the rearview mirror to make sure he’s actually there.

Sometimes Martin has to bite his lip so hard he bleeds just to keep from falling asleep. Music is not allowed. Conversation is not allowed. Not a noise, not a peep.

‘I want it to be as though a ghost is driving me’ , and so Martin does his best to disappear even when he’s driving.

Moorland House is a marvel of extravagance. It’s cold, expansive, and Martin is never more aware of how little his flat is a home than when Moorland House looms over him.

Martin hates drives that take him there and they so often do.

The house sits in a shroud of fog on the farthest reaches of the estate grounds. It takes such a long time to get from the entrance to the house itself, Martin would find himself begging the road to finally end. No matter how often he went there, the house would pull further and further away from him until the certainty that he would never see the world clear of fog became embedded in his bones.

He can’t remember what happened, what changed. Just that the fog didn’t leave him after one long drive. He arrived home and found a nurse sleeping in his bed and his mother genuinely - ‘she looked a bit surprised that I was there’, Martin says with a tight laugh - bothered to see him.

She wasn’t worried, she hadn’t minded his absence. When he was home she was tense, when he was home she was quiet. When he was home she wanted silence, she had a headache, she was too tired to talk. Go get tea ready .

One day, when Martin got ready for work, the world was gone.

“What do you mean?” Jon interrupts, snapping Martin from his stream of consciousness. It does little to break the flow.

The world was just gone, Martin explains. The fog from Moorland House had followed him to London. The world existed sure, but only in the fuzzy edges of his vision. People walked by without seeing one another, if they were lucky enough to have faces. The sun did not reach them there, it was nothing more than a dim haze. When he turned to go home, he wasn’t surprised to find his flat empty. His mother gone, he almost wept with a twisted sense of relief.

He was finally alone, and he was so terribly alone.

He couldn’t stay in his flat for long, because he felt that he should go somewhere. He just couldn’t remember where. He needed to be somewhere, to work on something. But he couldn’t remember.

“At some point, wandering around the fog, I think I forgot who I was. A name is so meaningless when there’s no one to call for it. I know I was gone for months, but it felt like days, like years, just walking. Hoping to meet someone else, but anyone who could talk to me was in the same boat. They begged me to remember them, to forget them, told me they had people…someone…they just couldn’t remember who. I-I forgot my mum. What she looked like...What did she look like….?” Martin trails off, eyes searching the air as though trying desperately to recall her features. He takes a breath, dipping his head as his eyes begin to burn red.

Jon digs through his desk for a box of tissues, heart heavy for the man in front of him, and places them in Martin’s reach. After a moment, he starts again.

“Nathaniel was there. Now and then. He’d stop by to check up on me, unbothered and unhurried. Walking around like he owned the place, the same way he walked around the flats. I think he was there to see if I’d died yet. There was-there was a hunger in his eyes. He was never close enough to talk, just close enough that I could know he saw me and that he wouldn’t help...

I was…so alone.  I mean that’s it, isn’t it? I could feel that place making itself home in me…or was I finally home? Maybe it had always been there, somewhere so deep in me only my mom could see it…maybe I was finally where I was meant to be.”

Jon’s felt fear, he knows it like he knows his reflection. But the reverence and terror that shakes Martin’s voice chills him to his core, and if he closes his eyes it feels as though he can see what Martin lived through.

“It’s the funniest thing, I can’t remember my grandfather’s face, you know?” The words are a blow to Jon’s chest, “But I can hear his voice, so clearly in my head. The first time we met, he said it was nice to finally meet me, he’d been so excited about me.

And then I was out, out in some alleyway. I don’t know where. But Nathaniel was there and he was so angry. His eyes were so cold and I was so cold, and then something…Someone…” Martin brings a palm to the base of his neck, the implication is easy enough to follow. Jon feels sick, feels like calling out for the man in the alley, for someone to see him and help. But he already knows this story and it cannot be changed.

It has already ended.

Martin has already died. 

“I was so cold and I couldn’t breathe and all I saw was him staring at me. Cold hungry angry eyes like a meal had been snatched from him.

I thought, dear god this is the last thing I’m really going to see, isn’t it? And then that was it...or so I thought,” tears streak down Martin’s cheeks. He returns from the memory, voice soft as his eyes land on Jon with enough awe to leave him breathless. “There you were, Jon.”

Martin’s breath hitches and the world narrows around him, it’s just the two of them in the aftermath of death averted.

“I was so alone, so-so cold Jon. I thought the last thing I’d ever see was that monster watching me die and then you woke me up,” Jon a monster of a different making, Martin doesn’t know , of course he doesn’t, “-of course, I thought I’d somehow ended up in heaven or-or whatever.”

“Hardly a heavenly sight,” Jon scoffs, voice thick with emotion. Martin blinks away his tears and gives a scoff of his own.

“And when you actually came back for me in the coffin? When it opened and you were staring down at me I-I just thought…now this is warmth. This is life , what it’s supposed to be like. Feel like. I could have died happy after that, but you took me home and shared it with me and-

And I can’t lose you, Jon. Not after all that.” Martin sits forward, terrified desperation in his eyes, “Whatever you have to do for work isn’t worth it, don’t investigate the Lukas family. They’re all the same, I know it. I just- It was bad enough to be lost there, I wouldn’t know what to do if they put you there.”

With that, Martin takes a breath and Jon feels the tension settle around them. Martin’s tears slow, but he looks as exhausted as Jon feels. Jon leans forward, placing a hand out towards Martin. He reaches for him too, hand landing just in front of his, inches that might as well be miles apart.

“Statement ends,” Jon says, clearing his throat. He turns off the recorder with his other hand before scooting the tissue box closer to Martin.  

His statement fits too neatly into Herne’s own encounter. The endless fog, that ever-consuming loneliness. The Lukas estate and their need for isolation.

“You’re not alone, not anymore,” Jon says as Martin sniffles, pressing a tissue under an eye.

“Do you believe me?”

“How could I not?” Jon responds softly. Martin’s eyelashes are thick with tears. Jon yearns to reach out and brush them away with a gentle hand. To kiss his cheeks and rest Martin’s head against his shoulder.

The look on Martin’s face that morning, his frightened features, and tense behavior finally make sense.

He wasn’t learning Jon’s secret, he was facing one of his own.

The heavy eyes gazing through the nape of his neck feel so distant. He doesn’t believe Martin because of them, he doesn’t believe Martin despite professional or personal reservations.

He just believes him, with everything his heart can offer.

“But you had a favor to ask?” Jon prompts. It doesn’t take much for him to see it, considering all Martin has done for his mother.

“Nathaniel Lukas saw who killed me. He must have, from the spot where he was standing. If I could get that information, even a hint to my mom…then she can get the money she needs to-to live comfortably. Lord knows she deserves it, after everything she’s been through. I know it’s selfish, I just said you shouldn’t investigate the Lukas family but…”

He looks guilty, exhausted, and so lost. Jon can follow the threads of his thought, can see where his concern lies.

To take care of his mother, he has to use Jon’s ability. To protect Jon, he has to forsake his mother. Jon’s not one to think of his family often, but he wonders if he’d hold the same sort of devotion for his grandmother.

He thinks he can understand where Martin is coming from if only just a little.

“Perhaps…perhaps it is a strange request, but I am happy that you’d want to rely on me,” Jon says. “You’ll worry about her regardless, even if she lives in the life of luxury afterward. You’d worry about her not having the proper coat.”

Martin sniffles at that, averting Jon’s eyes.

“If the roles were reversed, if I were sitting where you are...would you help me?” That gets Martin to look at him, eyes wide and mouth popped open.

“Absolutely,” he says, and then slams his mouth shut. Jon sighs at that, his concerns from the morning dissipating like fog under the sun.

It seems his guilt can remain undisturbed for a while more, like Melanie said. 

“I’ll talk it over with Melanie, she’s the one who has been in contact with your mother and has been doing her own investigation into your death. This information will be helpful, and we can be careful going forward. You’ve given us ample-”

Jon stops, quickly comparing Martin’s statement to that of Ms. Herne.

“You know where Moorland House is?”

“Jon…,” Martin starts.

“It’s not that I don’t believe you about the danger of this,” Jon assures him, “It sounds awful, Martin, and I am not about to do anything that puts me or Melanie in danger. But this is what we do, and the entire reason I wanted to bring you back-You deserve a better second chance, Martin. Won’t this help?”

“Not if you get hurt,” Martin responds. He looks up to him with tired grateful eyes. “I’ll go with you two.”

“No,” Jon says simply, shutting down any argument.

“I can get you to Moorland House, and I have been around the family graveyard enough.” Martin argues anyways.

“This man tried to kill you once,” Jon reminds him, getting a frown in return.

“Hardly a good excuse to let you go on your own.”

“Well, Melanie will be there,” He says smartly, earning him a flat look from Martin. “Fine, fine, it’ll only take a minute anyways.”

“A minute?”

“Yes, Martin,” Jon sighs, “That’s all I’ll give him. How much harm could he do?”