Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jon stumbled out of the hospital, Basira following cautiously behind him.

“And you’re sure you’re fine to go back to the Institute?” She asked again.

Jon nodded and hailed a cab. The tube seemed like a bad idea.

The archives were too silent, too empty. Tim was gone, Daisy was too, and Martin had transferred to work for Peter Lukas. Jon almost felt at home in the loneliness of the archives: it spoke to when he’d work all night and not go back to his flat for days.

But Melanie and Basira were there, a constant reminder that so many people were missing from the dark basement room.

Jon went into his office, and jotted down on a random paper that he’d need to get himself a new jumper, since it was colder than he remembered, and the old band shirt he was wearing just wasn’t cutting it.

He stared at the tape recorder lying on his desk for a while, not moving. It felt wrong, for everything to be the same as it had been before the Unknowing. The archives should show a clear sign of how much they’d lost, of how many people wouldn’t set foot on their floors again.

Tim Stoker. The real Sasha James. Daisy Tonner. Michael Shelley. Gerard Keay. Gertrude Robinson.

Jonathan Sims - the real one, the human one. The one who’d died when his heart stopped.

The Jonathan Sims who was sitting at his desk felt like an imposter, like he was wearing Human Jon’s name like a jacket, trying to hide his own monstrosity. The Jonathan Sims who was sitting at his desk could barely even be called that, now. He was the Archivist. Fully and truly. No more questions, no more doubt.

If Daisy were to corner him now, he wouldn’t blame her for killing him. She’d be doing the world a favor, taking out another monster.

Jon shook his head, resting his face in his hands. He couldn’t think like that. He was still useful to Basira and Melanie, he could still stop rituals for them. With them. Whatever.

It was cold. Had it always been that cold?

—————————

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Martin!

MARTIN

Oh. Hey, Jon.

ARCHIVIST

I-I haven’t seen you in…
(never mind) How are you?

MARTIN

I’m… alright. Busy.

ARCHIVIST

With-with Peter Lukas.

MARTIN

Yeah. I’ve got to go, now.

[Footsteps recede]

[The Archivist makes a disheartened noise]

[Static squeals loudly]

[CLICK]

—————————

Jon can’t bring himself to grab any tea. He’d been trying to restock the archives, since he was living there, but he couldn’t bring his hand to reach up and pick the box of teabags off the shelf. He looked down at the cart of basic foods and tightened his grip on the handle.

Why do you keep pretending to be human? That echoey voice that had been following him around for the past week asked. You're not fooling anyone. They all know what you are, Archivist. And they all wish you’d just stop pretending.

Jon shook his head, but it was getting less insistent over the days. It was right, after all.

He looked at the other customers, that voice telling him that they all saw him for what he truly was: a monster clinging to a humanity that it lost a long time ago. Maybe it was right. Maybe that’s why no one was meeting his eye. Because they knew the danger he posed to them. Maybe he should leave.

It was cold. It was often cold, now. He wasn’t sure why. He could’ve sworn it was warmer before, when he hadn’t had that little voice in his head. Maybe it was because his heart no longer beat properly. That made sense. Could they all hear? Hear the inconsistent, too-soft beating of his heart? Hear the last things tethering him to this life slowly grind to a halt? One day it would stop, but even then, the Archivist would go on, finally leaving Jonathan Sims behind.

He wished they’d leave him alone. He was sick of watching. He didn’t want an audience when he died.

There was a thick fog outside when Jon made it outside, arms laden with groceries.

Part of him just wanted to walk into it and disappear forever. Go somewhere no one could be disappointed in him, somewhere no one would get harmed by his actions.

The thought was so appealing. What was he even leaving behind? Martin didn’t want anything to do with him, he’d made that abundantly clear. It had taken Jon a long time to realize that the only reason he was able to keep going through all the horrors and torture was Martin. And now he's left him.

Rightfully so, the voice said. It seemed to be emanating from the fog around him. You were ridiculous to think he’d ever want anything to do with you. He left the second he could. And you deserved it. Jon sighed and watched a can roll away from him. He hurried after it, unsure how it had gotten to the ground, and found himself walking towards the Institute, away from the fog that spoke to him, promising to keep him tucked away from all the people he would inevitably hurt.

The cold bit at him cruelly, as if upset. He still didn’t have a jacket.

—————————

When the coffin was delivered, he considered not going to get Daisy.

The Eye screamed at him as he repeatedly hacked at his fingers, with more and more vitriol and rage every time it didn’t work. He felt the blade pierce his flesh over and over again, digging deeper and deeper into his muscle every time, but never actually severing the damn thing off. He tried both hands, hacking at them from his palm and from the back of his hand, testing every angle available to him. It wouldn’t work.

He threw the knife across the room in frustration, leaving bloody marks everywhere he touched.

Melanie came in. Then he was stumbling out of a door that gave him an awful headache, clutching one of his ribs in a hand that bore bright pink scars across all of its knuckles. The searing pain in his chest was contended by a feeling of triumph. He’d found a way around a barrier the Eye had imposed.

Jon stared at the fingernail marks on his floor, hand pressed against his mouth to keep the blood from pooling out between his lips.

Dig.

He’d never particularly cared for the Buried. It seemed ridiculous to like to feeling of clothes torn by sharp stones, dirt and grit under your fingernails and in your hair and on your face, panting and trying to ignore the ache in your arms as you dug and dug and dug.

Jon let out a breath. Exposure therapy, or whatever.

You really want to leave someone else? Condemn someone else to suffering? Don’t you think you’ve done enough of that?

The voice had gotten a lot more insistent. Jon wrapped himself up in a tight embrace that leaned more towards painful than comforting.

You can be alone down there. Until you find the Hunter, no one will bother you.

He glanced back at the coffin. Then at the scratch marks on his floor. He pulled off the jumper he’d been wearing and set it gently on his desk. Martin had left it in document storage years ago, and Jon had taken to wearing it, when the cold got to be too much for him, when he felt like without the company of someone else he would collapse.

He pulled the lid off the coffin.

—————————

“Daisy? Daisy!”

Daisy was pressed into the earth, eyes wide and thinner than Jon had ever seen her. Her face was streaked with dirt and tears, soil clumping her hair and making her fingers brown. Jon couldn’t help seeing the parallels to what she’d done to him, then shook that thought away.

Come on, Archivist, try to convince yourself you aren’t a monster. I know you want to.

He reached out his hand to her, staining the dirt red from where his cuts had reopened.

“Jon?” Her voice was hoarse with disuse. It didn’t have her usual snarl in it.

“Daisy! It’s me, I’m here. I’m here. We’re getting out.”

She nodded and took his hand. He pulled her out of the nook she’d carved for herself and hauled himself back through the worm-like tunnel he’d made for himself.

No, not worms. Ants. Ants are better than worms.

He reached out in his mind, looking for his anchor. The Eye was frantic, giving him useless instructions. He shut his eyes against the soil that tried to destroy his vision. The dirt stung in his cuts and against all his reopened scars and he left bloody trails wherever he went. But he was alone, which he had to admit was a pleasant change.

The wailing and sobs of the other poor souls trapped in the coffin was like a distant music, a harmony of pain that he couldn’t help but admit was beautiful. He could taste their stories, if they ever got out he would hunt them down. If he ever got out.

Jon couldn’t feel his anchor. He felt like he was floating, untethered to reality. Who would even care if he never returned? No one wanted him around up there, anyways. The cold bit at him, a pleasant respite from the sweltering heat of the coffin. He shut his eyes, only just realizing they’d been open.

Daisy’s nails dug into the skin of his wrist and he was brought back to attention.

“Jon?” She croaked out. “Jon?”

He nodded, rocks scraping his cheek. Daisy. Of course. He had to get Daisy out. People cared about Daisy. Basira sure did. Melanie probably did too. He had to get her out of there.

He tried again, calling out to his rib, that lingering memory of fear and pain. It did not answer.

He panicked and called out for anyone or anything that might help him get out. He latched onto Martin.

Why was Martin in his office?

No matter. He felt the pull of emotion, but not the fear or need he’d grown so used to following. It was a nice feeling, it made his insides feel warm. The cold bit furiously at where his clothes had torn but he followed the warmth, then he was sliding the lid fully off the coffin, gasping for breath.

A rush of static knocked him to the floor as the Eye forced its way back into his head. Then he realized there was actual static coming from all the running tape recorders. Who had put those there? Had it been Martin?

He looked around his office. Daisy was sitting on his desk and he didn’t dare tell her to get off as Basira wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. Melanie was standing behind her, one hand gently placed on Daisy’s shoulder. There were a couple wisps of fog hanging around the room, but he’d gotten used to those. He wasn’t sure why there always seemed to be fog whenever he went outside, or how it always seeped into his office, but he brushed it aside as something harmlessly supernatural.

There was no sign of Martin, and Jon felt his heart fracture, just a little.

He glanced over at Daisy, who was being gently helped out of the office, leaving a trail of dirt all over his research and notes.

No one had spared him as much as a passing glance. Surely that was better.

He walked over to his desk and brushed the dirt off his belongings, leaving bloody smears instead. Then he sunk to the floor and set about turning off the tapes, head hung low.

Surely being alone was better for everyone. He couldn’t hurt anyone if there was no one around, right?

He looked around the room desperately and found nothing. He pulled himself into a ball, leaving smears of blood on his clothes and skin. It was fine, he wasn’t going outside anyways.

—————————

Jon had noticed the fog, now. It was lingering in one corner of his office, tempting him to go sit in it and finally feel nothing again.

His Hunger ate him from the inside out and sparked pain in his body every time he moved, like barbed wire threaded around all of his bones.

You deserve this, he thought. Or was it that voice? It was hard to tell the difference. You should never have taken a live statement. They’re right, they’re always right.

He tugged the sleeves of Martin’s jumper down over his hands. His office looked like a crime scene: there was blood over the desk and splattered on the floor and walls, from where he hadn’t had the strength to clean it. There were drag marks in the floor and clumps of dirt scattered amongst the papers that had been tossed around the room in search of a statement.

The door was locked.

It was always locked. He pounded his head against it and shut his eyes.

The Hunger was unbearable and it filled his lungs with static, his breaths sharp and painful as the static caught against his teeth. His heart was beating too slowly to warm his body, as he tried to make himself as small as possible.

If you die, what does the world even lose? It came from everywhere around him. Or, was that just in his head? He felt lost in his own mind. A monster, that’s what you are. And no one will miss you.

“Basira,” he begged, thumping his head against the door again. “Basira please. It’s cold. Please, it’s so, so cold. I can’t do this.”

You will never stop hurting people. It’s what you were made for, Archivist, never let yourself forget that. You’re built to inflict pain on people. Jon pulled his legs closer to his body, trembling hard enough that he could see it. But come into the fog and it’ll keep you away from them. Away from Daisy, and Basira, and Melanie, and god forbid Martin learnt what you really are. No one will suffer at your hand anymore.

It was tempting, so tempting.

He could feel the power of his compulsion cutting his lips with its jagged edges, but it had nowhere to go, returning instead to fuel the sparks of fire in his body every time he moved even an inch.

He lets out a long breath.

—————————

[CLICK]

[Papers rustle]

[The Archivist sighs]

[Long pause]

[More rustling]

[The Archivist clears his throat as if to speak]

[Very muffled talking can be heard from outside the office. The Archivist says nothing.]

[Static squeals loudly]

[CLICK]

—————————

The door is locked. He could’ve sworn it wasn’t locked earlier. When had they locked it?

There was a tape on his desk. He didn’t know who put it there. It sang to him, called out to every blood cell and muscle and bone in his body, and he thought he finally truly understood some of the other Fears. That pull was enough to cripple him, if he didn’t follow it.

But he simply didn’t have the energy.

He pressed a hand to his heart, feeling the sluggish pounding of one of his most vital organs.

It would stop soon, if he couldn’t get up and take a statement. But the fog had him cornered in the back corner of his office and he didn’t dare go any closer to it.

He watched his breath puff out of his lungs in clouds of fog (It shouldn’t be fog, why was it fog?).

Somewhere outside his office, something called his name. He heard Daisy snarl and curled further into a ball.

Maybe she’d finally have the decency to take him out.

Chapter Text

The first thing Martin noticed was that he could hear the sounds of distant chatter and the rumble of cars when he came into work that day.

He’d assumed what he perceived as the fog retreating a little had been him getting used to it, like eyes in the dark.

The other thing was that Peter wasn’t in his office. That wasn’t too uncommon, but since Jon came back, Peter has kept a close watch over his every moment of distraction.

So where was he?

It wasn’t as if Martin’s isolation had gotten to a point where Peter was no longer needed. In fact, he had half a mind to go down and see Jon. He hadn’t seen him in a few weeks (that was only if you counted the very few short interactions he had with the man after he woke up from his coma), and he missed him.

Martin had to take a moment to consider that.

He missed Jon. He hadn’t missed Jon in a while. He hadn’t missed anything. He hadn’t missed making tea, or petting dogs he encountered in the park. And he certainly hadn’t missed Jon’s beautiful, warm eyes, or the way his mouth would twist upwards just a little when Martin set a mug down on his desk.

He was nearly bowled backwards by the strength of his emotions. He hadn’t felt much the past few months, and it was all hitting him now.

He had to take a breather, covering his eyes with his hands as if that would dampen the rush of all the aching and the missing and the love and the fear and the solitude. That suffocating fog and the heart-wrenching pain he felt everytime he deleted an email from someone he wanted to talk to, or shut the door on a conversation he’d love to have.

The fog was still there, lingering in the corners of his vision. Good. He wasn’t sure he was ready to actually talk to anyone yet, but he would like to see Jon, at least.

He wasn't so optimistic as to believe that Peter had simply given up on him. It was much more likely that this was a test or-or he’d given everything back to him only to take it away overnight. But he wanted to see Jon, be in the same room as him, so he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Martin was in the basement before he could fully process it. He pulled the Lonely around him, but it felt like a jacket that was getting too small. That was probably a good sign, right?

He was about to slip into Jon’s office, the door to which was slightly ajar, when he heard voices that were decidedly not those of the man he’d come to see.

“You really don’t know what happened with Jared?” Basira was asking, sounding annoyed.

“God damnit, Basira, I’ve said a hundred times: I. Don’t. Know. Shit,” Melanie snapped back. “He went to find Jared and… I dunno. I didn’t see him afterwards.”

There was the sound of someone rummaging around in a desk, then a cry of disgust.

“Is that a rib?” Melanie demanded.

Martin slipped into the office, carefully clinging to the Lonely. He didn’t like what he saw. In one corner of the room, a large wooden coffin had its lid popped open and thick chains lying on the ground around it. It had the words ‘DO NOT OPEN’ engraved in the front and Martin’s heart stopped momentarily. Had Jon gone in there? He looked over at the two women, who were observing something curved and gleaming. Martin bit his fist to keep himself from making a sound. That was a rib. Nearly removed, no gore or viscera or unnatural cut. It looked like it could’ve come from a classroom model, but he knew it hadn’t. It had come from Jonathan Sims’ chest.

“Well, I guess we know what he was doing with Jared,” Basira said, setting the rib down. She lifted up the other thing on the desk, besides all the clutter. It was a soft yellow jumper that Martin had lost a while back. Why… had Jon… He couldn’t bring himself to jump to such conclusions. It was ridiculous. “Was this Martin’s? Why is it here?”

Melanie scoffed. “Please, I bet he wears it to sleep or something. He’s obsessed with that guy.”

Martin pointedly did not make any sound, as if he could actually make this conversation end.

Basira sighed, setting the sweater back down. “If he comes out without Daisy I’ll kill him.” Martin didn’t like the sureness of her voice.

“I’ll load your gun.”

The two women walked out of the room and up the stairs, clearly still thinking about the coffin in Jon’s office and the rib lying on his table.

Martin jumped as a tape recorder appeared on the jumper, not running. Just sitting there, like it was trying to communicate something to him.

Martin pressed play, and set it next to the coffin.

He could only hope that it worked.

—————————

The fog did come back, but nowhere near as dense as it had been before.

He would still check Peter’s known hideouts multiple times a day, especially when his thoughts veered towards a particular scarred Archivist, but nothing ever happened.

He’d go down and add a couple tapes to the ever-growing pile beside the coffin every day, praying to whatever benevolent beings being there may or may not be that it would help Jon find his way out.

It had been about a week when there was finally sound coming from the coffin.

Pants and scrabbling footsteps echoed up out of the horrible artifact. Daisy stumbled out first. She looked exhausted and weak, dirt covering almost every inch of her skin, and she was panting hard. But Martin couldn't focus on her, not when Jon clambered out then immediately collapsed to the floor, clutching his head.

Martin fought back the urge to pull him into an embrace. No one was supposed to know he was there, after all, and Melanie and Basira had just walked into the room.

He simply looked at Jon, who was gasping for air, hands bloody and cheeks scraped. Martin had treated similarly dirt encrusted wounds before, also related to Daisy. He decided not to think about it.

Jon’s desperate, lonely search of his office before he pulled himself into a ball would haunt Martin’s every waking moment, imprinted behind his eyelids. Why hadn’t he gone to him? Given him a hug, or brushed the mud off him, or something?

There had been fog in that room. Of course, since Martin was there. But he could’ve sworn there was more than just the Loneliness he brought with him.

—————————

He stared at an old man’s body in confusion and then horror. It didn’t move. Obviously.

He felt like it should, though. Right? The old man — Jonah Magnus! he thought a little hysterically — should be showing some sign of life, since he was alive. Technically. In someone else’s body.

It had been a long day.

Remembering that Peter Lukas was expecting an answer, Martin turned to face him. He had no doubts in his mind over what he would say. The Lonely had a very loose grip on him around the end.

“No,” Martin stated. He knew Peter was shocked. He’d expected Peter to retaliate.

But Peter just looked at him, foggy eyes full of malice… and nothing happened.

Martin couldn’t bring himself to believe he was that lucky. “What did you do?”

“You haven’t been to see your previous Archivist in a while, have you?”

Dread settled in Martin’s chest. “What did you do.”

“I helped him.” Peter smiled that customer-service smile of his. “He was feeling awfully Lonely.”

“Give me a straight answer!” Martin all but shouts. “I think he means he sent Jonathan to the Lonely, Martin.”

Martin whirled on Elias — Jonah? — and scowled. “How do I save him?”

“You don’t.” Elias shrugged, seemingly prepared to abandon his pet project to the One Alone. “He’s gone.”

Martin frowned, considering, then he turned to Peter. “Send me after him.”

Peter raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Whatever you say.”

—————————

Martin was outside the Institute, but it was wrong. It was encased in fog like a prehistoric beast in ice, and when Martin stepped up to the doors, they wouldn’t open. The fog was cold and it bit at his arms, as if trying to shoo him away.

The usually austere building just looked old. Decrepit, almost. The windows were cracked and the walls were chipped and crumbling. Martin looked at the building where he’d spent so much time, then turned away.

He didn’t know what he was following, but as he shouted Jon’s name out into this strange, quiet version of London, he could sense something pulling him along.

The sky above was covered in a thick layer of fog in a way that made Martin’s mind go to snow globes. The buildings were abandoned and in disrepair. The further along he walked, the worse they seemed to get, until they were nothing but rubble.

In the center of the carnage Martin saw Jon. His tiny frame was mostly obscured by fog and he was curled up to appear even smaller than he usually did, but it was unmistakably him.

Martin rushed over and reached out to pull him into a hug, then thought better of it. That might be too much for him, considering the tight hold the fog seemed to have on him.

It poured out of his nose and mouth at each exhale, like cigarette smoke, except it was even more destructive. His eyes, which Martin had loved when they were a deep brown and when they were a brilliant green, were a dull and muted gray. All the color seemed to have been leached from him, leaving him gray and lifeless.

“Jon?” Martin said quietly, heart aching.

“Go away.” His voice was quiet, but it seemed to echo off the collapsed buildings around him.

“I came to get you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Jon.”

“It’s safe here. I can’t hurt anyone here.”

“You’re hurting me by staying here.”

“That’s ok. You’ll get over it.”

“Jon…”

The fog nearly enveloped the smaller man but Martin grabbed his hand before he could lose him.

“Jon, look at me.” He didn’t, but the fog receded a little.

“Why are you here? You left.”

“Oh…” Martin felt his heart break, and he squeezed Jon’s hand tightly. “I didn’t mean to. You were dead, and I was grieving. And when you woke up, I was doing it for you. To keep you safe. And I’m sorry I didn’t notice… this. Happening to you.”

“I thought you’d want to stay, after the Unknowing,” Jon continued, as if he hadn’t heard. “I thought— I loved you, you know? And I thought you felt the same.”

Martin grabbed his face in his hands, trying to make eye contact. “Jon, Look at me.”

“No.”

“Jon, Look at me. Look at me and see that I’m not leaving you again, ok? Got it?” He looked up, meeting Martin’s gaze. “Look at me. What do you see?”

The haze of gray lifted from Jon’s eyes a little, recognition sparking in them. “Martin. I See you.”

Martin pulled Jon into a hug, trying to pass all of his body warmth over to him, and he felt Jon smile, only slightly.

Martin held his hand tightly as they left the Lonely, never once faltering even though he wasn’t entirely sure where he was heading. He had to get back to the Other Institute, had to get into the Archives.

He would get Jon out of this place and he’d never let him feel lonely again.

Chapter Text

[CLICK]

(train rattling)

(Martin shuffles, makes an inquisitive noise)

(no one answers)

MARTIN

Shame the weather’s so bad, this could be quite pretty.

(the Archivist grunts)

(Martin sighs, opens a book)

[CLICK]

—————————

Jon was silent most of the train ride to Scotland — only once speaking up to point out a particularly interesting bird — but Martin forced himself not to worry. He was readjusting. It had taken Martin a while to readjust, right?

When they finally got to Daisy’s safehouse it was dark out, the rolling hills and picturesque town cast in ominous shadows. Martin never let go of Jon’s hand.

They shared the bed, in the end. He refused to let Jon sleep on the sofa and he could tell he didn’t want to be alone. When Martin woke up, he went and made tea, then came back and waited for Jon to wake. It didn’t take long.

“How are you feeling?” Martin asked gently, handing him the tea he’d made for him.

Jon smiled. “B-better. It’s nice to… have someone. Here, I mean. Uh…”

Martin couldn’t help that horrifying certainty that he could’ve stopped this. If he’d actually acknowledged Jon when he woke up, instead of leaving him on his own and assuming he’d be fine. He’d had Jon’s wellbeing in mind when he did it, but he didn’t take into consideration that he’d be so completely alone.

He sat next to the skinnier man and watched as he carefully sipped his tea. He didn’t like how painfully thin Jon was, or how the bags under his eyes looked like they could’ve been applied with makeup they were so dark. He didn’t like how his hands trembled horribly and his eyes clouded over so often. He certainly didn’t like the way his breath sometimes came out in puffs of fog, which he quickly dispelled, seemingly embarrassed. And he’d die before he mentioned any of it to Jon. He just let the concern make itself at home in his chest and decided to do his best to get him looking healthier.

“We really don’t… have anything, do we?” Jon asked, rummaging through the cupboard. He was resting on the counter, having forgotten his cane, and Martin could see his arms shaking. “Is there… is there a supermarket or something…” He trailed off, staring blankly at the wall.

“Pr-probably not a supermarket, but a store, sure,” Martin said, trying to get his attention.

“Mmh…” Jon mumbled. He shut his eyes and sat like that for a while, to the extent that Martin was genuinely concerned that he may have nodded off right there. But then he suddenly snapped his eyes open, hopped off the counter and went to go get his shoes on.

“Jon…?” Martin followed behind him hesitantly.

“We’re going to the store?” Jon looked up at him like they’d discussed and agreed upon the matter. It was honestly freaky.

“Right. Right! Let me just… shoes.”

Jon was already walking down to the village, scarf tucked over his nose, and Martin had to rush after him. How was he so bloody fast? He was basically five feet tall!

“Are you alright?” Martin asked once he caught up.

“Hm? Yes, of course?” Jon said it like Martin was acting funny.

“...right.”

—————————

[CLICK]

(footsteps crunching on gravel)

(Martin repeatedly starts talking before lapsing back into silence)

(a shop bell dings, there is the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the footsteps are on hard linoleum now)

MARTIN

Right so… what are we here for?

ARCHIVIST

Food.

MARTIN

Right. I got that. Anything in particular you want?

ARCHIVIST

Just hungry.

(Martin makes a sound of concern but walks away. The tape seems to follow him)

(static squeals distantly)

[CLICK]

—————————

[CLICK]

MARTIN

What was that?

ARCHIVIST

(coldly) I’d expect you to know.

MARTIN

I know- (starts over) I mean, why didn’t you tell me you were… Hungry.

ARCHIVIST

(defensive) I didn’t realize it was going to be a problem. I was fine.

MARTIN

(exasperated) Jon.

(the Archivist does not reply. They walk in silence for exactly two minutes before-)

[CLICK]

—————————

Jon didn’t mean to be irritable. He hadn’t realized how Hungry until he’d Seen that woman and the Vast avatar that kept appearing to her. He Knew that she didn’t have long before the ocean that she was trying so hard to avoid came and swallowed her up in its depths and she’d spend the rest of her endless life staring up at the things she thinks are slivers of light but are simply fish as the creature she so feared slowly but steadily moved it enormous body over to her, each fang as large as a whale. He needed her statement- she wouldn’t be around for long.

He shook his head, and Martin looked over at him. Jon didn’t look up to see what was in his gaze. He didn’t want to know.

Being so close to that woman, mere inches away from her nightmares, it was like getting ten minutes of sleep when you haven’t set your head down in days. It calmed the dizziness and the feeling that he was lost in a mind that was being piloted by something that was not him, but it did nothing to quench the Hunger that was tearing him apart cell by cell until there was nothing left of him but a receptacle for the Eye’s needs.

Now he just wanted to be alone. He wanted to curl up in a locked room, know the security of being caged by its walls. He knew it wasn’t good, he knew Martin wouldn’t approve of the urge, but he’d never felt worse and safer than when Basira kept him under lock and key. He could still feel the tears he’d made in his arms, he still knew the ache in his legs from the incessant pacing, the rips in his nails from scratching at his door, the exhaustion his arms and eyes after coming through every single crack in his office for anything, and it had been awful.

So there must be something terribly wrong with him that he wanted to go back to a windowless box with nothing he could possibly scrounge a single scrap of horror off of.

Or, he was just lazy. The more Jon considered it, the more it made sense: he knew he didn’t have to deal with what he’d become when he was in that state. It was easier than facing his urges and stopping them on purpose. Basira had been right. Of course she’d been right. He was a monster and he couldn’t even own up to it on his own.

He felt too cold. He didn’t notice.

He wanted to be alone.

But he didn’t get what he wanted, and Martin was looking at him with concern in his soft features.

Jon wanted to cry or throw up, coming to face his behavior. He’d upset Martin. He’d nearly taken a statement, then he’d had the audacity to ask for the privilege of being alone.

—————————

Martin was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands fidgeting with a cup of tea that he hadn’t made for himself.

Jon was lying in the bed, skin ashen and eyes unfocussed. He kept thrashing about, calling out for various people who were no longer there. Whenever he called for Martin, something in him shattered. His voice was so broken, like he’d accepted Martin would never come.

He’d take Jon in his arms and whisper platitudes to him, but the frail man never responded.

Occasionally he’d gasp out fog, eyes gray. Martin had discovered he could contest this by hugging him tightly, which he found himself doing anyways on multiple occasions.

It had been nearly five hours since they’d gotten back from their attempted shopping trip. Jon had been mumbling about the Vast and being alone for a while, before he stopped talking except when he cried out for Tim, or Daisy, or Georgie. Martin had made a lot of tea. Daisy didn’t have anything remotely good on hand and there was no sugar or honey, which he knew Jon liked, but he couldn’t stand not doing something with his hands and he refused to leave for long enough to go and get more supplies. They might run out of teabags soon. All the mugs were sitting, untouched, on the floor beside the bed. Martin hadn’t taken a sip out of any of them.

—————————

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Jon!

ARCHIVIST

(rough, like he’s just woken up) Oh. Martin.

MARTIN

How are you, are you ok?

ARCHIVIST

How long have you… been here?

MARTIN

About… nine hours, now.

ARCHIVIST

(small) …why?

MARTIN

Because I care about you, and you were hurting.

ARCHIVIST

(very quietly) You shouldn’t.

MARTIN

Jon.

ARCHIVIST

Sorry.

[CLICK]

—————————

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Are you feeling better?

ARCHIVIST

Not really.

MARTIN

Right.

(long pause)

MARTIN

It’s… it’s the statements, right? You need one of those.

ARCHIVIST

I… yes. The Lonely was… dulling the effect of the Hunger, but I haven’t had a statement in… months. (hastily added) But- But I’ll be fine! I mean, I’m not… it’s not. I don’t need one.

MARTIN

You can’t just… tough out starvation, Jon.

ARCHIVIST

I can, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me. I won’t hurt anyone.

MARTIN

That’s not what I was worried about! (sighs, then says, firmly) I’ll call Basira next time we go to town.

ARCHIVIST

We didn’t get groceries last time. Because, well…

MARTIN

Then there’s no reason for me not to get some statements sent up while we’re out.

ARCHIVIST

I suppose…

[CLICK]

—————————

Martin didn’t let go of Jon’s hand for a second. Obviously, Jon couldn’t fault him for it. He wouldn’t trust himself to be outside right now, either. He still longed for the simplicity and impassiveness of a locked room. He could feel the Eye pulling him towards someone - that same woman from earlier - but Martin tugged him along.

His brain felt like it was slowly being torn apart, bit by bit. He was lucky if he could form a coherent thought, much less vocalize it, and Martin had had to pull him out of the way of a large variety of things he was moments from crashing into. If he could think enough to actually understand what he was feeling, it would be embarrassment. Instead, he just walked beside Martin, drowning in pain and fog.

—————————

Martin was absolutely terrified he’d lose Jon to the Lonely or the Eye the second he let go of his hand. He tried not to actually hurt him with his grip, but it took conscious effort to relax his fingers. By the time Jon had become cohesive it was far too late to go and call Basira, so he’d waited the night. Jon had slipped back into unseeing eyes and mumbling nonsense instead of words, and wisps of fog would slip out when he breathed.

Martin was faced with the option of leaving him in the cabin and risking the Lonely sink its claws back into him, or bringing him out and risking the Eye taking control of him.

He chose to bring Jon with him so he could keep an eye on him, but it didn’t seem like he was fully aware he was even outside. He walked in perfectly straight lines until Martin tugged on his wrist to direct him, though he did make a sharp turn and start walking in the wrong direction once, eyes suddenly clear. Martin didn’t need an eldritch god of knowledge to tell him what that meant, and he pulled Jon away.

He just had to get the statements. Then Jon would feel better, he would be present for more than ten minutes at a time. And hey, maybe they would help him fight off the Lonely. It hurt Martin to see his gray eyes and blank expression, especially after seeing it on himself for so long. He knew what it felt like, though the fog seemed to cling more tightly to Jon.

He found a phone booth and dragged Jon into it, glad he was so small, because he doubted they'd both be able to fit otherwise.

—————————

[CLICK]

MARTIN

- Basira said she could get them sent up in four days, so you’ve just got to hold on for that long. (no response) Right, yes. I’ll let you sleep.

[CLICK]

—————————

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Jon? Jon, you need to eat something.

ARCHIVIST

(slurred) Statement.

MARTIN

They’ll be here in three days.

(The Archivist whines)

MARTIN

You’ll be ok. What’s three more days, right? (nervous chuckle) I’ll stay here with you, ok? Just… try to eat. Please.

[CLICK]

—————————

[CLICK]

MARTIN

That’s good, you’re doing great. Do you think you can manage one more bite? (pause, watching for a response) That’s ok. I won’t force you. I know you feel bad. (pause) Ok, I’ll just go put this in the sink, then I’ll be right back, ok?

[CLICK]

—————————

[CLICK]

(The Archivist mutters something)

MARTIN

I called Basira. She says she posted a box of statements two days ago. They should be here soon. I’ll go down tomorrow morning and get them.

ARCHIVIST

I-I can…

MARTIN

(firmly) No, you can’t. I’ll go in the morning, then you can read your spooky stories until your heart explodes, but right now you’re not doing anything other than resting. (softer) Do you think you’ll be alright on your own here?

ARCHIVIST

I’m not a child, Martin. I can be alone for an hour.

MARTIN

I never said you were. I just worry.

ARCHIVIST

Of course, sorry.

[CLICK]

—————————

Jon had been fairly lucid when he’d left to go to the post office, which eased Martin’s nerves a little.

He walked back up to the cabin, a box of statements tucked under his arm. He’d double checked them, though he hadn’t actually read any of the words, and they all held the weight of a Properly Spooky Story. Good. Jon needed all the ‘food’ he could get.

He’d said Basira and Melanie had tried to force him to go cold turkey first, but it had resulted in terrible health complications, so they tried a gradual stop. Which meant Jon hadn’t had a statement in four months. That was, simply put, bad.

Martin was startled to see Jon sitting on the couch, a now-cold cup of tea in his hands, but it wasn’t an unpleasant surprise.

“I got the statements,” Martin announced, setting the box down beside Jon.

He was on it instantly, fishing through the papers and tapes like a starving man - which he was, actually. He selected one, eyes starting to glow as he flipped open the file. A tape clicked on nearby.

“As fun as listening to you monologue is…” Martin said jokingly. “I will give you some privacy. Go for a walk.”

The panic on Jon’s face took him aback, but the smaller man covered it up quickly. He nodded, a little tensely, and gestured to the door.

Martin didn’t want to intrude on Jon’s statement, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually go far, so he said, “I’ll just be out back, ok? Call if you need me.”

He stepped out and walked back into what could loosely be called a garden, the gentle droning of Jon’s voice following him out the door. He could hear it faintly through the walls. They really were thin.

The garden was a mess, what looked like a wildly overgrown vegetable patch was in one corner, and the rest of it was as wild as the forest around them. The only indication that it had once been a garden was the rotting fence that surrounded the area. He couldn’t imagine that Daisy had ever taken care of it.

It started raining heavily while he was in the garden, and he took shelter beneath a tall tree, planning to wait about thirty minutes before he checked on Jon. That was how long the statements usually ran. He liked the rain, anyways.

Eventually, he made his way back out from under the tree, positive it had been about long enough. When he looked up at the sky, he could tell something was horribly wrong. The clouds were what tipped him off. They seemed to be centered right over the cabin, and they sure hadn’t come in from somewhere. There were hints of red and green in the dark - too dark, too strange - clouds. It chilled Martin to his core.

He sprinted inside, not caring that he was dripping water everywhere he stepped. Jon was sitting, perfectly straight in a way so completely alien to him (Jon was a man of slumped shoulders and bad posture). His face was uncannily blank, but there was panic in his eyes as he read from the page.

“Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin. Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.”

Martin looked between Jon and the statement in his hands, unsure what he should do. He knew there was something evil about the statement, and he didn’t like how familiar the cadence of Jon’s voice was, but he couldn’t place it.

“How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that. And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.”

Jonah. Of course he recognized the voice, it was that bastard. He’d hoped, foolishly, that they were done with him.

Jon’s eyes flicked up to meet his between paragraphs and the pleading terror in them drew him from his stupor.

“What’s going on?” he asked, rushing over to Jon’s side.

“You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here. Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.” Was all Jon said in return.

He was suddenly aware that something bad was about to happen, and he had to find a way to stop it. Instinctively, he flipped the light switch off, plunging the room into darkness.

“Now,” Jon continued to read. A cruel laugh crawled its way out of his throat, a sound Martin had never even fathomed Jon making, and a chill ran down his spine. “Repeat after me.”

Martin lunged. He grabbed the statement and tore it out of Jon’s hands, ripping it into pieces before tossing it into the fire. Jon screamed and it was horrible. It was a cry of pure agony, like he’d just lost a loved one, but there was relief in his gaze, before he crumpled onto the floor.

Martin turned the light back on, heart racing.

Jon was lying beside the couch, limp in a way that was reminiscent of puppets with their strings cut. Martin didn’t like that comparison. He kicked the box of statements away and pulled Jon into a hug. He only noticed Jon was crying when the tears soaked into his skin. Not that he’d ever complain.

—————————

[CLICK]

MARTIN

Can I make you some tea?

ARCHIVIST

No… no thank you.

MARTIN

You have to drink something.

(The Archivist makes a small sound)

MARTIN

Will you consider reading a statement?

ARCHIVIST

No!

MARTIN

I’ve proofread all of them, they’re all safe.

ARCHIVIST

(hysterical) It- looked safe. It looked safe, Martin! Statement of Hazel Rutter regarding a fire in her childhood home. Original statement given August 9th, 1992. And it wasn’t!

(Martin sighs)

MARTIN

Ok. I can’t make you. But please try to eat some food, then?

ARCHIVIST

I’ll try. I’m sorry.

[CLICK]

—————————

[CLICK]

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

(shaky exhale)

ARCHIVIST

(calling out, a little panicked) Martin?

MARTIN

You’re done?

ARCHIVIST

Yes.

MARTIN

The world is still here, Jon. Nothing’s changed.

ARCHIVIST

(snaps) I know that! (softer) I’m sorry. It just… never gets easier. (sighs) Thank you.

MARTIN

Of course. I love you, Jon.

ARCHIVIST

I love you too.

MARTIN

Now, I saw this really adorable herd of cows the other day and they should be there now, if you want to go see them.

ARCHIVIST

Lead the way.

[CLICK]