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Upton house was a wonderful safe haven amidst the sea of horrors that was now the world. If only Martin had been awake for more than three minutes to appreciate it.
The first evening, once Martin and Jon had been peeled off the floor, had been nice. They’d woken up together curled under one of Jon’s soft wings. They’d eaten real food! and gone to sleep in a real bed! and spoken to a real person! Well. And Annabelle.
Martin stretched and sat up, simply enjoying being in a warm bed with the man he loved. It probably wasn’t creepy to watch him sleep, right? Jon was an avatar of an all-knowing voyeur god after all; surely Martin could indulge in a bit of sappy observation.
Martin had fashioned Jon a couple of shirts and sweaters he could wear around his wings, but he’d chosen to sleep without any since they both desperately needed to do the laundry while they had the chance. The green feathers across his back transitioned into a shade of auburn that matched those on his arms at the very edges right before plumage gave way to gorgeous brown skin mottled with scars.
Martin distinctly remembered when he found Jon collapsed in his office with blood pooled around his back. The image, though clouded and distorted by the Lonely, haunted him. The first time he saw Jon growing new feathers, he freaked out a little bit. It hadn’t been even remotely as gory or even shown any signs of upsetting Jon past some itching, but he hadn’t been prepared for it. Martin hadn’t realized that he felt guilty for not having helped Jon more that day. He hadn’t thought to feel anything about it except annoyance at the mess he’d have to clean up.
Jon blinked one eye open slowly, then his lips stretched into a wide, lazy smile. Martin returned it, discarding the fuzziness in his boyfriend’s gaze as sleep-induced bleariness.
“Morning,” Jon said.
“It really is, isn’t it.”
Jon reached out a hand and smushed it against Martin’s cheek, his coordination in shambles so soon after waking up. “Love you.” Martin leaned down and pressed a kiss against his forehead. Jon smiled up at him, eyes literally glowing with warmth, before saying, “I’m going back to sleep.”
Martin got up eventually. He went down to the kitchen to get himself and Jon something to eat, getting lost for about ten minutes on the way there. In the kitchen he found Annabelle, simply standing there and staring at the doorway. Of course she was expecting him.
“You’ve been here for a while, haven’t you?” she said with absolutely no prompting.
“Not really. It’s only been four days.”
“And what an effect it’s having on your precious Archivist.”
“He has a name.”
“I do not think I am particularly welcome to use it.”
“Anyways, what do you mean ‘effect’?”
“Being so completely cut off from his God is not good for him, Martin.”
“Why are you bringing this up?”
“He wasn’t going to tell you on his own. And I have… a vested interest in your… continuation.”
Martin sighed. “Right. I’m just here to get some toast or something. And, honestly, I trust my boyfriend a lot more than you.”
“But do you trust him to tell you when something is wrong?”
A pause, perhaps too long.
Martin set down the plate he’d been piling stuff onto. She was right. Dammit, why was she right? There was very little chance Jon would tell him if something was actually wrong.
“I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Annabelle chuckled lightly and Martin scowled at her. Without another word, he left the kitchen and headed back up to his and Jon’s room.
The vagueness, the tiredness. Were those effects of Jon’s separation from the Eye? He hadn’t had a statement in a while. Martin wasn’t sure if his domainly horror infodumping counted as a statement, but he hadn’t done that either since arriving at Upton house. There was Salesa’s story, which might have been a statement, but Martin wasn’t sure if it even worked when the Eye wasn’t Looking.
Martin pushed open the door and set the plates down on the nightstand, arranging things so everything was easy to grab. He didn’t feel bad about eating in this bed because, while it was fancy, it was also Mikaele Salesa’s and Annabelle Cane’s, so he felt like he deserved a pass.
Jon was sitting up and staring into space, eyes blank.
Martin, instantly concerned, reached out a hand and waved it in front of his face. Jon didn’t move in any way that would indicate he was looking at Martin, but he somehow knew he was being focused on. He often forgot about Jon’s 360 vision.
If Martin was being paranoid he would say Jon’s eyes seemed more orange than green all of a sudden. He would say that around his eyes and shoulders looked a lot redder. But he was not going to freak out. He didn’t need Annabelle to make him doubt Jon.
“Oh! Breakfast!” Jon reached over and smiled, pulling a plate onto his lap. “Thank you Martin.”
“Of course. It’s good to see you getting some sleep.”
“I don’t dream here,” he said with a smile, before sobering quickly. “Though I suppose that might be because my… victims are constantly being tormented anyways. It’s not like they get much of a chance to sleep in the apocalypse.”
“Hey. No. This is a no negativity zone. I don’t want that patented Jon pessimism.”
Jon shook his head as if he could simply rattle the pessimism out of his thoughts. “Of course… I’m sorry for ruining this.”
“You’re not ruining anything, Jon. I just wish we could pretend everything is normal for… even a day.”
“No, you’re right. You’re…”
They finished eating and Jon finally got out of bed. Martin really hoped him sleeping in was a sign of him healing instead of a symptom of his seperation worsening. Martin went to put the dishes away and Jon headed off to do… something.
Martin got distracted by the library and only went out looking for his boyfriend around midday, gripped with a sudden fear that he’d neglected him for too long and he’d collapsed somewhere in the sprawling gardens.
After what felt like hours of searching, Martin found Jon hunched over on the side of a pond, still not wearing a shirt, and splashing water across him like he’d seen birds do in puddles back when London was still a thing. Martin swore Jon had had less feathers across his shoulder blades before, because the stab wound Melanie had given him had been clearly visible, instead of almost obscured by shimmering brown feathers.
“Jon, love?” he called out almost hesitantly. “Are you alright?”
When Jon turned his head to face him, Martin was greeted with an expression that he could only describe as being that of a pigeon. Jon cocked his head and let out a low noise of curiosity that Martin hadn’t heard before.
“Jon?” He rushed forwards and cupped his hands around Jon’s wet cheeks.
“Yes?” Jon took Martin’s hands in his own, moving them away from his face.
“Are you alright?”
“Of course.” Then he looked from the pond to Martin’s expression and asked, “Did I worry you?”
“Just a little.” Martin let out a high laugh that wasn’t quite humorous. “You just looked very… bird-y.”
“Oh. I don’t really know how I can, uh, fix that. But I’m sorry.”
“Annabelle just… she spoke to me, earlier, about how being separated from the Eye was affecting you badly. I’ve been a little on edge, I guess.”
“Oh. Well I can’t say it’s pleasant being cut off but, uh…” A pause; eyes unfocusing for a moment. “We can stay for some more time, it’s fine.”
Martin pursed his lips. He really would rather stay here as long as possible, but Jon would almost definitely push it too far and end up getting himself hurt for Martin’s sake. “You need to promise me you will tell me when you need to go. It’s nice here but not enough to warrant you getting hurt, ok?”
Jon just nodded, pulling Martin into a kiss. He was wet all over, but Martin complied.
“Alright, let’s get you a proper shower, shall we? And a shirt.”
***
Jon woke up. He’d been half awake anyways.
He was somewhere warm and soft and wrong. It was confined. There were walls around him, he was sleeping horizontally on the floor. That wasn’t right. Why was he doing that?
Jon stood and fluttered his wings. He quickly strode out of the confined space. He didn’t like confined spaces. Unless they were nooks. He liked nooks. And crannies. They were good, too. He knew humans had a name for the types of nooks and crannies he was referring to. He didn’t know what it was.
The door.
Jon stared at it with half his brain, keeping the rest of it on his mate. His mate was a human. How had that happened? Why were they both sleeping horizontally? Was that how humans slept?
Was Jon a human? No. He was sure of that. He was not a human. He had too many feathers. He had too many lungs. His bones were too hollow. His Hunger was too cruel. He was not a human.
But his mate was.
Should he leave his mate?
(Should…)
It wasn’t like his mate couldn’t find him.
No, surely his mate knew how to find a good place to sleep.
A good nook.
A good cranny.
Whatever the humans called it.
(… he leave his mate?)
Jon stared at the door.
(Should he…)
But no, his mate couldn’t find a good nook-or-cranny. He was a human.
How had Jon-the-bird ended up with his mate-the-human?
(…leave his mate?)
The door was made of wood. Jon-the-bird did not know what kind. Jon-the-Archivist screamed somewhere deep inside.
(Should he leave…)
How did he know the man in the strange warm nest was his mate? He didn’t have wings, he didn’t have air sacs.
He just knew.
Jon-the-bird turned to look at his mate-the-human.
How had that happened? How had he accepted the courtship? How had he shown reciprocal interest? How had Jon-the-bird, with his prized plumage and carefully crafted bones, ended up with a human.
(…his mate?)
His mate? That human couldn’t be his mate. That warmth couldn’t be his nest. The door couldn’t be the end of his journey.
He opened the door.
He was in a hallway.
It stretched on seemingly endlessly on both sides but - there! An exit!
Jon-the-bird made his way to the exit. He had too much on his skin-feathers-skin-skin-skin-feathers-what-was-he-what-was-he-what-was-he feathers. Why? Why did Jon-the-bird need this extra layer?
Jon-the-bird looked down at himself and grabbed the gray thing across his chest. He pulled. It tore. He tossed it aside. He had enough feathers to keep warm. He’d deal with his legs later.
Jon-the-Archivist gave one last scream of protest before falling into a feathery depth of thoughts of open air and a nice nook-or-cranny-or-human-word to settle down in.
The bird made its way to the exit on sturdy legs. It still had all its toes. It was proud of this. Many pigeons did not have all their toes. It had never had an accident of that sort.
The bird smashed into the exit window.
The bird opened the window. It liked the outside.
It did not have to worry about slipping. It could fly, so it did. It flapped its wings and flew up to the top of the human structure.
It was a gimpel pigeon. It had nice green wings and soft brown feathers. It was special. It was bred to look like that.
Was the bird a pet?
No.
No, it decided. It was not a pet. It was not a creature masquerading as a human. It was a bird. It had woken up horizontally. It would not fall asleep that way.
The bird settled on the roof and got to tearing the layer off its legs. It found it appreciated the layer around its feet. No worries of losing any toes. They were safe. It did not know how it knew to be worried about losing toes. It did not know why it had images of rock pigeons, city dwellers, with missing or lopsided feet.
Had it been to the city? Was it a city bird?
No, it wasn’t a rock pigeon. It wasn’t from there.
It was a gimpel - an archangel but only technically.
It rested on that roof. It was half awake in that nook-or-cranny. The wind whipped at its hair from this height. The sun rose. The humans woke. It could hear them. It could hear sounds of distress. It could see a human, nothing more than a blob of red hair from its perch on the roof.
It shut both its eyes and curled its wings closer around itself. It could sleep here. Somehow it knew there were no predators around that would cause him a problem.
Him? The bird furrowed its his brow.
It knew that it had once had a grasp on gender. Somewhat.
Did it need all that nuance, now? The bird wasn’t sure. When it was still -----the-----, it had enjoyed its relationship with gender. Hadn’t it? He? They? Xe? Ey? She? Ae?
It shook its head. It had long hair. Birds didn’t have hair.
Was it a bird? It had to be. It was the Bird. It didn’t have another name. How could it not be a bird?
But it wasn’t a true Bird. Just as it wasn’t a true Human. It had places where the feathers parted and gave way to scarred skin. It had long graying hair and no beak-or-bill. It had dexterous fingers and opposable thumbs. Its mind and much of its ins and outs were Bird, but its shape and abilities were mostly Human.
And of course there was the other thing. The thing that made it neither a Human nor a Bird nor a Both. The part of it that had glowing eyes and spoke with a tongue of static. The part of it that had shattered a world with only a few words. The part of it that ate the minds of people, staining its lips and teeth and eyes and thoughts a noxious green. The part of it that Saw too much. The part of it that had almost gotten it killed a thousand times in a thousand ways. It wasn’t sure what that part was.
It wasn’t sure it wanted to know.
“Jon!” It heard the human cry from below. Maybe multiple humans. It could never tell them apart - they all looked and sounded the same.
It did know that word. It did not know what it meant.
The Not-Bird-Not-Human-Not-Natural sat back on its haunches, enjoying the sun. It liked the sun.
It did not close its eyes again.
It did not like not seeing. (It was learning so much about itself.)
It was so busy not not seeing that it saw a Spider make her way towards it.
“Hello, Pigeon,” the Spider said.
The Bird-Not-A-Bird cooed back. It did not like spiders. (It was learning so much about itself.)
“They’re looking for you, Pigeon,” the Spider continued.
The Not-A-Person-Not-A-Bird-Not-Neither did not know why it did not like spiders. It wanted to scream. It wanted to leave; wanted to go find someone with strong arms and a warm smile and kind words. (It was learning so much about itself.)
“Are you sure you want to stay up here? All alone? Don’t you have a mate to get back to, Pigeon?”
Did it? No. It had decided the human with the strong arms and warm smile and kind words was not its mate. It would never be mates with a human. A human would never choose it. It was an abomination of nature, a cruel mockery of what Birds and Humans and Living Things were dangled in front of the faces of everyone who met it. A twisted puppet dancing on its contorted strings. Smiling. Frowning. Screaming. Starving. Loving. A broken mirror held up to the real world, reflecting its beauty in a million ways that were all wrong. (It was learning so much about itself.)
“Come along, Pigeon,” the Spider ordered.
Knock Knock.
Who is it, Mr. Spider?
Mr. Spider wants more.
Pigeon did not want to come along. It cooed in distress. It did not like spiders.
(It was learning so much about itself.)
“Do you want me to send someone else for you, Pigeon?”
It didn’t have anyone else. It didn’t have anyone. (It was learning so much about itself.)
“Alright then.”
Hands. Not!Hands. Not Not!Hands. Not hands.
Around his throat. No feathers there. Just not hands. Just a rope. A rope?
A tug. A stumble. A descent. A struggle. Gasping, tears, fighting, tearing, clawing.
Standing in a parlor. The Spider’s parlor. In front of two Humans.
It sobbed.
It was not a Something. It was not an Anything.
It sobbed.
It was wrapped in layers. Layers over its feathers, over its skin, over its scars and flaws and mishaps.
Hands. Real hands. Against his back. No more rope. Just real hands, warm, insisting.
Insisting.
Insisting.
It sobbed.
It did not have the strength to fight.
It so rarely had the strength to fight.
(It was learning so much about itself.)
Jon saw Everything. The Eye, frenzied by the separation, was cramming the entirety of the world’s torment back into head and it took a moment for him to process his actual surroundings. Martin was holding his arm tightly, fingers digging into his skin through the layers of jumper and feathers.
Martin’s brow was furrowed upwards, eyes full of… concern? Fear? Jon couldn’t quite pinpoint it.
“J- Pige- Jo-” Martin seemed to panic for a moment before settling on, “Are you feeling better, love?”
“Better? Yes. Yes, I think so. Unfortunately” Jon tried to think back to his time at Upton house, but it was mostly blank fuzziness. “Being away from the Eye…” Jon waved at the glowing mass in the sky, as if he needed to demonstrate where it was. “I don’t know, honestly. I don’t really remember? Uh, anything?”
“Oh. Good.” Martin loosened his grip on Jon’s arm a little. They walked a short distance, heading towards the unmistakable shape of the panopticon.
“I’m sorry,” Jon said, feeling like he had to get it out there. “I wish we could’ve stayed longer.”
“We pushed it further than we should’ve,” Martin replied. “You… I lost you.”
“To… the Eye?”
“No. No? Maybe. You were… a pigeon. I don’t know how else to describe it.” Jon took Martin’s hand gently, prompting him to continue. “I woke up and you were gone. I found your shirt on the ground in front of an open window but I couldn’t actually find you for hours. Then Annabelle walks in with a rope tied around your neck like…” Martin half-heartedly mimed a noose, face scrunched.
“Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry.” Jon wrapped Martin in a hug. “I didn’t realize that would happen.”
“I made you promise to tell me when things got bad and still, still you refused to share with me.”
“I’m sorry, Martin. I don’t remember it, I don’t know what I was…”
“Oh don’t pretend you wouldn’t lie to me about your health even with memories intact.” Martin’s voice was just a little too sharp, Jon took a step away.
They were standing in a realm of the Desolation. He’d have to make a statement soon, but not now. Now he could deal with this situation.
“I’m sorry.” Jon had hoped that ‘dealing with it’ meant more for him than just rolling over and taking anything, but he’d never been a strong man.
Martin sighed. “Me too. I’m just… it wasn’t pleasant.”
They lapsed into silence again before Jon broke it a second time. Maybe he should learn to shut his mouth. “It’s ironic that the Eye was what was keeping me human, really.”
“I guess so, yeah.”
Jon didn’t know what that meant for him, that he couldn’t be separated from the eye for very long without completely losing himself. He didn’t want to think about what would happen to him when they turned the world back. He’d been hiding from those thoughts for a while now. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Martin, but leaving him with only a bird that had once been his partner was surely worse? Jon knew he’d changed. There were many more feathers on his arms, legs, and back. New ones had sprouted around his eyes almost like a mask a character in the few comics he’d ever read would wear. Jon was aware of a whole new register of sounds at his disposal, and none particularly human. He didn’t think his physical shape had changed much, but he was positive that given enough time it would.
His mind had gone so quickly.
“Otherwise, what was it like?” Jon asked. Trying to remember was like running his hands through a current with fingers splayed.
“It was nice. Really nice.”