Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They fell to the floor in a clattering of limbs, spewed backwards out of the nothingness of the void into something metal and solid. There was a loud clang, followed by a piercing crash and a thud, before the room fell into a deafening silence.

Martin sat limply against whatever his back had been thrown against, heaving oxygen into his lungs with a fervent desperation as he slowly blinked in his surroundings, head ringing so loud he could barely hear himself think.

His whole body ached and he felt sick as the world spun around him. Turns out, being forcefully shunted into a different reality doesn’t do wonders for the stomach. Crazy.

He swallowed thickly. Memories of the last twenty-four hours swam in disjointed chunks through his mind; or at the very least, what could have been considered the last twenty-four hours in a hellscape where the passage of time quite literally doesn’t exist.

It felt so, so long ago, yet so achingly recent at the same time. He remembered the pang in his chest as he woke to find Jon missing from their makeshift bed. He remembered the scrambling of him and his friends as they desperately tried to put their plan into motion as fast as they could. He remembered finding Jon at the centre of the Panopticon. He remembered how frightened and helpless he felt. He remembered the feeling of the knife cutting through skin and soft tissue and the screams and the crashing and the taste of iron and-

He remembered Jon.

Now fully registering the weight still in his arms again, he inhaled a sharp breath as he looked down. 

Jon lay there motionless, scooped into Martin’s arms in a hopeless attempt at protection against the events they had faced barely moments ago. He could feel the sting of tears in his eyes as he called out Jon’s name, his own voice slowly cutting through the subsiding tinnitus that rang out in his ears.

“-on? Jon?! Shit- shit, no no no no no, please-!” Shaking, his hands pressed immediately to Jon’s chest where the knife had punctured so much deeper than he had ever intended. There’s so much blood oh my god oh my god

His pleas were interrupted by a violent gasp of air as Jon’s head jerked upwards, eyes suddenly wide and frantic, hands grasping at Martin’s torn and blood-soaked shirt. Martin let out a heavy sob of relief, one hand fumbling to find Jon’s and holding it tight like a lifeline.

“Jon! Jon, hey hey hey you’re okay! You’re okay, we- we can get help, I’ll go find someone-”

“Martin…”

“- who can get us to a hospital- Jon, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“ Martin ,” Jon rasped out with as much conviction as he could, slamming the breaks on his worried partner’s oncoming panic-induced spiral. Martin’s lips pursed and he looked down at him with those big doe-eyes, full of concern and fear, and Jon squeezed the hand that had been grasping his so firmly.

“I’m okay,” he managed breathlessly. It was mostly to quell Martin’s panic, but he… he did feel okay. More than he had expected. More than he should . The initial fright of having woken up somewhere unfamiliar after such a traumatic experience had begun to subside, and he took a moment to take stock of himself. His other hand found Martin’s at his chest and gently pried it away so he could assess the damage himself. He pawed at his own chest and, whether he knew or Knew it, it was hard to say, but… it was just as he’d suspected.

He gave a single, dazed laugh, “It’s, ah- it’s healed.”

“What?” Martin stared at him dumbfounded, the concern knitting his brow quickly skewing to that of confusion. He pressed his own hand back to Jon’s chest again, pushing under Jon’s and blinking in utter disbelief. His mouth hung open, lips moving as if to form words that wouldn’t come, and after a moment, he managed, “But how? I would have thought, you know… ‘cutting the tether’ would have taken away your spooky healing powers? Unless it… what, it didn’t work?”

“I resent your use of the word spooky,” Jon grumbled, “but honestly, I… I don’t know. Obviously something worked, otherwise neither of us would even be here… wherever here is.”

They both fell into silence, thoughts weighing heavily on the implications of their current situation. It was becoming quickly apparent to both of them that they had no idea if Annabelle’s crazy plan - which had inevitably come to fruition - had worked the way they thought it would, or if it even worked in its entirety at all. They’d clearly survived the collapse at the end, but at what cost? What did it mean for their world? Or for them?

Martin’s thoughts burbled in a different direction. In the silence of the moment, so many thoughts and feelings came back to him like a tidal wave. He was upset. He was frustrated. He was hurt and felt betrayed as the memory of the promise they’d made to each other was crushed into dust on the hard, cold, stone floor of the tunnels under Jon’s stubborn boot of martyrdom. Martin didn’t know what to do with these feelings. They felt hot, they felt ugly, and seemingly out of nowhere to Jon, Martin balled his hand against Jon’s chest, bunching his shirt some into his trembling fist.

“You unbelievably daft bastard! What were you thinking?! ”

The shock on Jon’s face at the tonal shift was almost comedic, and he sputtered out a string of nonsense syllables before the words finally came to him, “What was I thinking?? I was trying to do the right thing!”

“There WAS no ‘right thing’, Jon! But there was a stupid thing and you chose the stupid thing!” Martin’s voice pitched to its higher octaves.

“Well I’m sorry for trying to be reasonable, but none of you were giving me much of a choice! I-”

Before Jon could even finish that thought, Martin grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him in, their lips colliding in a mess of contact. The kiss was rough at first, full of pent-up frustration and anger and grief and fear all packed into one bullish motion. But as quickly as the emotions behind it had broiled, they petered out, melting into something scared and desperate and yearning. The frustration born of terror ignited from the situation they’d found themselves in not so long ago gradually eased, and the hopeless and unwavering love Martin felt for this stupid man blossomed in its place.

Martin pulled away after what felt like a soft eternity, his hands still holding Jon’s face as he pressed their foreheads together, choking back a sob as he spoke, “I can be mad at you later. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

Jon’s fingers curled tighter into Martin’s shirt, pressing into the touch. Refusing to give into the sting of tears in his own eyes, he squeezed them shut and took a deep breath in through his nose, his brows creasing tightly together. All he wanted was to sit in this closeness forever, taking in every morsel that was Martin Blackwood in front of him, who was alive and with him and not completely and utterly swallowed by unforgiving rage at him… for the most part. It was more than he could have hoped for. It was more than he deserved.

He released the breath in a deep sigh, his voice a soft murmur as he spoke, “I’m sorry I lied to you.”

Martin sighed in return, “I know... You’re a ridiculous, impulsive, reckless man, but I love you all the same for it,” he sniffled. There was a tinge of frustration still to his voice, which made Jon’s heart twist a little in his chest, but there was also something tender there, and the smallest smile tugging at Martin’s lips, conflicting with his tear-stained cheeks and the troubled crease of his brow.

Jon lifted his hand, a gentle thumb brushing the lingering tear streaks from Martin’s cheek before his fingers came to rest loosely in his hair. They had barely been apart in such a long time - just the two of them against the world - and yet he felt like he missed him so much.

“I love you, Martin.”

It was Jon who pulled Martin into a kiss this time. It was soft and tender, any burning malice at their situation long since dissolved. They pressed into the touch, savouring the hushed and gentle moment they could finally share now that it no longer felt as though the world itself was breathing down their necks.

“We should probably figure out where the hell we are,” Jon murmured between kisses, though the suggestion was made with a hint of hesitation. He knew they should probably get a head-start into figuring out where their interdimensional worm-hole (hah) had spit them out, but every part of his body and soul ached for him not to. He was so, so tired.

Martin gave an affirming hum against his lips, though didn’t move to do as such, and when long enough had elapsed for Jon to realise the urgency of the suggestion probably hadn’t fully registered, Jon pulled away from the kiss with an amused smile on his lips, “Martin-”

“Fine,” Martin sighed, feigning exasperation and unable to hide the teasing from his own tone, finally forcing his eyes away from Jon and, nearly immediately, Martin froze.

“Oh,” was all he managed.

Jon was on immediate alert at the tension in Martin’s voice. He pulled away enough to properly look up at Martin, and saw that almost all the colour had drained from his face as he stared off in utter shock at… something?

“Martin?” Jon murmured, trying not to sound too alarmed but the trepidation in his voice was almost certainly noticeable as the panic began to buzz in the pit of his stomach. His gaze followed Martin’s line of sight, and immediately he locked eyes with four, unexpectedly familiar faces gawking silently back at them at the doorway.

“Oh,” Jon echoed the sentiment flatly. “Oh dear.”

Chapter Text

“What the fuck!? ”

Jon and Martin both startled at the sudden outburst, visibly shrinking in on themselves at the defensive energy the group of four was immediately giving off. To be expected, they supposed - they themselves weren’t exactly feeling the most at ease in their current predicament either. Their gazes drifted over each individual as they both scrambled for something - anything - to say.

The one that all but squawked the initial exclamation was a tall, dark-haired man donning a very casual-but-tidy button up Hawaiian shirt. It took all of a millisecond to put the pieces together just by looking at him. Standing in front of them was - albeit a much younger - Tim Stoker, gawking and pointing an accusatory finger at the pair as his expressive features told his whole emotional journey like bold words on a page.

The man that appeared to be another Martin held what could only be described as an openly mortified expression as he watched the scene unfold in front of him. His glasses were crooked on his face as though he’d bumped them on the way in and hadn't realised he’d knocked them off kilter, and the flush quickly overtaking his face was only extremely noticeable. Jon lingered on his bright curls and freckle-dusted cheeks, not yet dulled by the residual effects of the Lonely, and something knotted in his chest at the sight.

A woman stood amongst them, put together in a neat, yellow blouse with her tight curls pulled up into a loose, high bun on her head. Round glasses framed her intelligent eyes, and she studied them with the same suspicious and sceptical glare the rest of the group seemed to hold, though hers seemed to be mixed with something else. Perhaps a glint of curiosity.

Neither Jon nor Martin seemed to recognise her.

“Who are you?” the final of the individuals demanded, his voice full of mistrust and forced authority as he pushed through to the front of the small crowd. His eyes were wide with suspicion and clearly on high alert as he stared daggers into them. “How did you get in here?”

Jon couldn’t help that his gaze hung on him in particular. He looked… young. Well, relatively speaking. Jon was never a young looking man, even in what could have been considered his prime. There never really was a time where his own person was at the forefront of his priorities - much to the frustration of those around him - though there had definitely been a time he’d been far better off than the pit he’d found himself in these last few years of his life. Clawing desperately at the surface only to catch the hint of a breath before being dragged back under.

Looking back at a face that shared his own, devoid of worm scars and donning the glasses he no longer needed, tugged at his heart in a way he could have never anticipated.

After a moment, Martin gave the group a wry smile and wiggled his fingers in an attempt at a placating wave. 

“Um. Hello!” he tried with a nervous laugh, “We’re, uh. You? From… the… future?”

Jon couldn’t help but shoot Martin an incredulous look, and even Martin seemed to cringe at himself as the words left his mouth, before turning his attention back to the group, holding both his palms out in front of him, “Okay, look- it appears as though we have quite a bit of explaining to do-”

“Yes, you have a lot of explaining to do. Answer my questions.”

“I mean… I wasn’t lying …” Martin mumbled mostly under his breath, though the individual who appeared to be Jon shot him a sharp stare all the same.

“A real answer. You expect us to believe such ludicrous nonsense as you’re ‘us from the future’?”

Jon and Martin exchanged a glance before Jon responded, “Well, um… Sort of?”

“I mean, look at us?” Martin added, gesturing between themselves as he shot a pointed look at their other selves.

Other Jon’s expression hardened, intensely regarding the two of them before directing a stern order to the group behind him, “Call the police.”

Jon barely had a chance to open his mouth before Martin retorted, “Oh, come off it, Jon,” unable to hide the pinch of annoyance that was making its way into his tone. “The police? Really?”

Other Jon’s face twisted into a look of pure exasperation, “How did you know my-”

“We are you,” Martin urged, almost pleadingly. “Here, look; You’re Martin,” he motioned to his other self, “Tim,” gesturing to Tim, “and- um…”

“Sasha,” Jon finished, his voice quiet and thick with the heartache that laced that name on his tongue. Her gaze flicked immediately to meet his, a flash of inquisitiveness bright in her eyes as she quirked her head a little.

Martin’s brow twitched in a conflict of both confusion and recognition, and eyed Jon for a brief moment before his gaze shifted back to… well, to Sasha, apparently. Jon saw his throat work as he swallowed thickly, “Yeah. Sasha.”

“Right, so you know our names,” Tim piped up, crossing his arms over his chest, “What’s that supposed to prove? You’re sat smack-bang in the middle of one of our super top-secret filing rooms. Who’s to say you haven’t been sitting here sifting through our highly confidential employee paperwork, gathering intel on all of us-”

“I think I believe them,” Sasha interjected suddenly, gaining intensely questioning looks from the rest of the group.

Tim’s mouth was agape with surprise, “Sash, are you serious? ”

She looked at each of them with a shrug, loosely gesturing to the two men still sitting on the floor, “Well he’s right, I mean - they do look just like you two, if a bit more haggard. Which, speaking of,” her gaze shifted back to Jon and Martin, a slight worry playing at her brow, “Are you two alright?”

Jon couldn’t help the hint of a smile that tugged at his lips, “Yes, believe it or not.”

The memories were gone, there was no changing that, but he couldn't have been more sure now that this was the Sasha they’d been missing so dearly back home. He didn’t have to Know , to know that.

“That’s a lot of blood for someone who’s ‘alright’,” Other Martin piped up then. He was still hanging towards the back of the group, but peering over the shoulders of his coworkers as it seemed his investment in the situation had begun to pique somewhat.

“Hm. You should see the other guy,” Jon quipped flatly. No one laughed. Martin jabbed him lightly in his side.

“Ow- Sorry- Look, it’s complicated, but we are fine - relatively speaking. We’re also not here looking to cause any trouble. We would really just like a moment to gather our bearings and figure out where exactly we are.”

Other Jon began dryly, “You’re in the Magnus Institut-”

“Yes , we gathered that much, thank you,” Jon cut him off. Both Martins exchanged an unintentionally knowing look at each other.

“As I said, it’s complicated,” Jon continued, injecting a bit more sincerity into his voice, “We will explain everything, we just need a moment to- to orient ourselves. Is that alright?”

A tense silence fell over the room as their counterparts regarded them carefully. Martin opened his mouth to begin an attempt to smooth things over, before Other Jon broke the silence.

“Fine. You have five minutes. We’ll be waiting outside.”

A small breath of relief. “Thank you,” Jon responded.

The group slowly shuffled out through the door, Other Jon throwing a pointed glare at the two of them over his shoulder before shutting the door behind them. Jon and Martin immediately sagged into each other, exhaling the breaths neither of them realised they were holding.

“Oh my god,” Martin whined, scrubbing both his hands down his face, “What the hell was that?”

“I have to say, that was the last thing I expected after we were shunted from the Panopticon.”

“Truer words, love,” Martin groaned as he finally began to hoist himself to his feet, rubbing his lower back as they now had the opportunity to properly take in their surroundings.

It looked like they were, in fact, in one of the filing rooms of the Archives. Jon noted the number of toppled metal filing cabinets behind them, a notable dent in one of them where Martin’s back had apparently connected as they were launched out of the interdimensional hole (that was definitely going to leave a bruise), along with the unfortunate amount of papers and manila folders that had, as a result, been spewed across the carpeted floor. He cringed to think how long that was going to take to tidy and reorganise. He hoped he wouldn't be here to find out.

He was called back from his brief survey of the room as Martin’s hand came into view in an offer of help. Jon’s chest warmed a little and he, of course, took the proffered hand and allowed Martin to tug him to his feet. The motion, however, carried him a little further than he was expecting and he stumbled, catching himself on the warm body in front of him. Strong arms immediately wrapped around him, easily supporting his weight.

“Whoa- hey, I’ve got you. You’re sure you’re doing okay?” concern laced Martin’s voice, eyeing Jon carefully for any signs of injury or fatigue that he might have missed in his earlier cursory glance.

“Yes, sorry, I’m- I’m fine. Just a little unsteady on my feet. I think I just need a moment.”

“Look, if you need longer than five minutes, we can tell them to bugger off-”

“No, no. It’s alright, Martin. They’re just…” he sighed. “They’re just scared. I can’t say I wouldn’t have reacted much differently had the circumstances been reversed.”

“I guess,” Martin conceded hesitantly.

They both stood there in silence for a drawn out moment, before Martin piped up in a hushed stage whisper, “This is bad, Jon.”

Jon pursed his lips, matching his softened volume, “I know.”

“What do we do? We can’t just tell them everything, can we? Every movie I’ve ever watched has said that screwing with the past is a bad idea.”

Jon rolled his eyes, his lips quirking into an amused smile, “This isn’t a movie, Martin. Plus, I don’t know what other choices we have. They’re not going to just let us go without some form of explanation as to who the hell we are and how we ended up in the middle of their Archives in the first place. We owe them that much, at the very least.”

“Okay, sure. But then what? They just let us walk out? I seriously doubt that.”

“I don’t know. Probably not. But…” Jon trailed off, his eyes shifting between focal points as his thoughts swam, grasping at answers that simply weren't there. He really couldn’t come up with a way they could get out of this that didn’t complicate things further, but maybe… maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. His mind kept looping back to the same idea over and over. A terrible idea, certainly, but maybe…

“It… it doesn’t seem like Prentiss has attacked the Institute yet. What if…”

Martin stared at him for a moment, “Jon, if you’re about to suggest what I think you’re going to suggest-”

“What if we could help them, Martin?” 

Martin’s head lolled back as he let out a soft groan, “Jon.”

“What if we could?” Jon insisted, “You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it, too!”

“Of course I have! But we just got out of the literal apocalypse and it’s a crazy idea!”

“I know it’s crazy, but I wouldn’t feel right if we just left them to repeat what we went through if we have a chance to stop it. This is an opportunity to do something good , Martin. To right wrongs that never had the chance to be corrected. I can’t, in good conscience, just step away from this.”

Martin finally looked down at him again, and Jon’s eyes were pleading with him. Like a sad, wounded puppy that Martin could just never bring himself to say ‘no’ to, and Jon knew it.

Jon watched Martin’s face journey as he wrestled with each passing emotion, before, finally-

“Fine…” Martin breathed with a heavy sigh, bringing his hands to Jon’s shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze, “Fine. We can try. But as soon as there is even an ounce of a threat to you or your wellbeing, we’re out. I can’t watch you get hurt like that all over again, Jon.”

The wave of relief that washed over him in that moment was not something he would ever care to admit to Martin, though he could imagine the way his shoulders loosened and the breath he let out would have been enough of a tell. He leant up and pecked the corner of Martin’s mouth in a chased kiss.

“Thank you. And look- we don’t have to get directly involved, I don’t want you getting hurt either. I promise we’ll be careful.”

Martin’s mouth knotted into something of a mix between frustration and fondness as he stared back at him. Jon could tell he wasn’t overly plussed by the idea, but he honestly couldn’t see what other choices they had.  They were, both figuratively and quite literally, backed into a corner with no other direction to go but forward - a position Jon often found himself in these days so was unfortunately quite familiar with. So why not try to make the best of a shitty situation, right?

After a brief internal debate Jon didn’t need to be privy to to understand, Martin pressed one last kiss to his forehead before speaking, “Alright. Let’s go spill our guts, I guess.”

Chapter Text

The group of four were waiting outside as Jon and Martin pushed the door open. Tension was still thick in the air, though it would seem the other group had loosened up a little, chatting amongst themselves as Jon and Martin had gotten their shit together. It didn’t feel as suffocating when all of their eyes turned to meet them.

Martin gave them a sheepish wave, having taken the lead with Jon close in toe behind him, their hands clasped tightly in each others like a grounding tether between them.

“We’ve decided it would be best for us to take this to the breakroom,” Other Jon announced matter-of-factly, turning his full-body attention to the pair. “No use milling about in the halls, and we’re unlikely to be interrupted there. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Martin blinked for a moment before responding, “Oh, no yeah- not at all. Lead the way.”

Other Jon gave a pointed nod, and the six of them migrated through the Archives towards the basement’s breakroom.

Martin took this time to take in the familiar-yet-foreign sight of the building they now walked though. It very much was The Magnus Institute, he could tell that much. But something was… different, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Were the walls a slightly darker shade? Was the carpet different? Was it the lighting? The smells? Something about it just felt… off. Like if something was moved out of place on your desk and you couldn’t quite put your finger on what.

The familiar groan of the breakroom door pulled Martin out of his swimming thoughts as they all shuffled inside, Tim and Sasha plopping themselves down onto the couch with Other Martin perching on the arm, and Other Jon pulling up a chair at the lunch table. Jon and Martin hesitated at the door for a moment, before following suit and taking up seats at the table across from them, Jon giving Martin’s hand a reassuring squeeze as they sat.

There was an uncomfortable silence that followed as the group examined them that dragged on for what felt like minutes, before Jon cleared his throat and spoke up, “Well. Thank you for, uh… taking the time to listen to us, I suppose. I’m sure this is as bizarre for you as it is for us. I, uh… hm. I don’t really know where to begin. I’m sure you have questions, so why don’t we start there?”

“Sure,” Other Jon crossed his arms and leaned his elbows on the table between them, eyeing them both cautiously, “Why don’t we begin with my initial questions. Who are you and how did you get in here?”

Jon nodded, taking a steadying breath before he began, “Alright. Well, my name is Jonathan Sims, The Arch-” he cut himself off, closing his eyes and harshly clearing his throat before continuing, “former Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, where we are- were, from. This is Martin Blackwood,” he gestured to Martin beside him, sharing a soft and openly fond glance with him, “former Archival Assistant at The Magnus Institute, London.

“As for how we got here, well… that one is a little more difficult to answer, but I suppose I’ll share the footnotes. Obviously, we are not from here. ‘Here’, being this- this universe, I suppose. We don’t fully understand what that means either,” he added quickly as he saw mouths already opening to bark questions at him, “but we certainly aren’t in the same place we were roughly thirty minutes ago.

“Things were… things were bad, where we came from. World-endingly bad. And plans were put into motion to try and fix it, which involved opening a rift in the fabric of space to push all of the bad into. Martin and I…” he glanced almost sheepishly towards Martin, “We were caught in the centre of it all. It was… complicated and unfavourable and, to be quite honest with you, I didn’t think we would make it out. But I suppose fortune had a different idea for us, and we must have been pulled through as well. And we were spit out here.”

“Sorry about the state we left the filing room in, by the way,” Martin added abashedly. He heard a snort from Tim’s direction, and Other Jon waved a dismissive hand.

“A problem for another time. Suppose we believe you - why here?”

Jon shrugged a shoulder, “Your guess is as good as ours. The Magnus Institute has always been the epicentre of our misfortunes, so I suppose there’s no better place for the Web to have dumped us,” Jon remarked dryly.

“The Web?” Other Jon prompted curiously.

“Ah,” Jon sounded flatly, “Yes. One of the Fear manifestations from our home - I will get into that later. But- let’s just say, if you ever run into one Annabelle Cane, keep your distance.”

Martin cringed beside him, murmuring an off-hand comment mostly to himself, “Yeah. She wanted to fill me with spiders.”

Jon looked at Martin then, eyes going wide with a level of horror and shock on his face that was almost palpable.

“Martin, what?”

Martin’s shoulders went rigid, suddenly realising what he’d just said, “Oh- uh, had I- did I not tell you that?”

“No you didn’t tell me that! How are you only mentioning this now?!”

“I don’t know! It didn’t seem very important at the time!”

Jon stared at him with unfiltered bewilderment, “Christ, Martin! That is a little bit important!”

“I’m sorry!-”

“Alright,” Other Jon’s raised voice cut through the squabble like a knife, bringing the room to a harsh silence, “That’s quite enough of that. Let’s stay on topic, shall we?” He leaned back in his chair thoughtfully, “Let’s say this is all true. What does you being here mean for us? Are you-”

“Are you actually from the future?” Tim suddenly blurted out, a familiar sense of wonderment in his voice and the expression on his face echoing the same sentiment. Sasha elbowed him in the ribs, and he gave a protesting yelp, “Hey- It’s an honest question!”

Martin snorted an amused laugh, “Depends actually, what year is it?”

“2016,” Sasha offered, sending a jeering look at Tim that only mostly hid her amusement, before turning her attention back to Martin, “February 22nd.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully, casting his mind back to that particular date in their own timeline. Even before the development of his Archivist abilities, Martin knew he was remarkably good at keeping a catalogued account of events in his mind, especially when it came to statements - especially the live statements.

“Has Naomi Herne been in to give her statement yet?” Jon directed the question towards his universal counterpart, who seemed all but slightly taken aback by the question.

“Oh. Uh- Y..yes, about a month ago.”

“Right. That gives us a good point of reference as to where exactly we are in your timeline of events. I…” he paused for a moment, running his next words through his mind carefully, “I am uncertain as to how much we can share at this stage. It is all but likely that Elias could be listening in on what we’re speaking about, and I’d like to avoid that if at all possible.”

Tim scrunched his nose up in vague disdain, “Elias? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“Mm, yes. Elias is…” Jon trailed off.

“A bastard?” Martin offered.

“A bastard,” Jon agreed, “That is all I am willing to offer at this point in time. Just… don’t trust him.”

Without much hesitation, Tim offered an exaggerated salute, “Aye-aye, futureboss - way ahead of you. The guy always tickled me as weird anyway.”

Martin watched the ache of familiarity ghost over Jon’s expression at the moniker Tim so casually threw at him.

They’d talked at length about their friends in the past and how much they missed them, and Jon had always mourned the smaller moments the most that had been so easily taken for granted. He’d always told Tim and Sasha off for their jeering and antics, but deep down it had become a sense of familiarity and friendship that had left an aching, guilt-laden hole in his heart in their absence.

Jon cleared his throat, banishing the brief wistfulness behind his expression with it.

“Yes, well- Good. Keep it that way.”

“What are you going to do now?” Other Martin’s voice was laced with curiosity and tinged with concern as he spoke up. Both Jon and Martin shared a glance, before Jon turned his attention back.

“We… we aren’t sure. We didn’t exactly have a plan if we made it this far and haven’t had a chance to talk that particular detail over. I suppose we’ll have to make do with whatever ends up being available to us.”

Martin deflated in his chair somewhat, “We don’t even have our wallets anymore.”

Jon couldn’t help wincing as Martin voiced one of his many concerns, “No… no we do not. But we’ve survived worse-”

“Why don’t you just stay here?” The suggestion almost shook the pair out of their seats as Sasha spoke up, and it seemed to draw surprised looks from the rest of the group as well.

“What?” she questioned almost accusingly, eyeing each of her friends, “We’re not just going to let them go live on the streets. Here is better than nowhere, and I think they’ve earned a little bit of trust from us,” she looked over Jon and Martin with a look of deep and scrutinising curiosity for just a moment, before it softened, “Plus, I really want to hear more about whatever you two have been through, and where you’re from. If we’re headed down the same path, I want to know.”

Tim clapped her on the shoulder, leaning forward in his seat, “Yeah! You two still have a lot explaining to do. Also, you seem worlds less of a tightarse than our old boss here, so that wins you some points. You’re also, like, almost literally our friends, in a crazy multiverse sort of way. So I feel like we have a duty here.”

There was a long sigh from Other Jon, before he spoke up, “I hate to say it, but I do tend to agree. Mostly with Sasha,” he added quickly as Tim inhaled, “There are a lot of unknowns about who you were and why you’re here, and I want to know about it. I feel as though this isn’t just something we can turn ignorance towards now.”

Other Martin nodded along affably, shrugging a shoulder some as he added, “It’s also still technically winter, you know. It’s way too cold outside to just… let you leave without a plan.”

It took almost a full thirty-seconds of clambering for words before either Martin or Jon could speak again, the unexpected generosity from, well… from practically strangers to a technical degree, was almost too much to parse for either of them.

Eventually, Martin found his voice and croaked out, “Um. Wow, guys. Thank you, that’s…”

“It’s no trouble,” Sasha smiled at them, “I know Jon keeps a cot handy in document storage for his late nights. Which,” she gave her Jon a pointed look, “I still don’t like, but that’s a discussion for another day. Though on that note,” she looked back to Jon and Martin thoughtfully, “there is only one cot… I suppose we could get anothe-”

“No! No no, that’s- that’s fine, Sasha,” Martin laughed a little, “Just the one is perfect. Thank you- thank you so much, it’s more than we could have asked for, honestly.”

There was a beat of silence as the unspoken question drifted through the room before Tim spoke up, eyeing Jon and Martin like a laser.

“Okay, I have to ask,” he announced, an air of finality to his words, “Are you two together?”

There was a choking sound from Other Martin’s end of the couch as Other Jon stared mortified daggers into Tim’s skull. Martin couldn’t help the amused snort that left him, especially when he spied the devious smile that’d made its way onto Jon’s face. He’d been waiting for someone to ask, the scoundrel.

“I didn’t exactly think we were being subtle about it,” Martin mused, and the grin that made its home on Tim’s face was like nothing he’d ever seen.

“You are, I knew it! You don’t just kiss your boss and not tell! Marto, you sly dog,” he turned and bapped a playful punch into Other Martin’s arm, “I knew you had it in you!”

“Tim!” Other Martin whined uselessly.

“Well,” Martin started, deliberately drawing out the syllable for dramatic effect, “If we’re being honest here, Jon technically made the first move, not me.”

There was a beat, before a chorus of “what?!”s erupted around the room, and Martin couldn’t hold his laughter anymore. It was full and from his chest and it felt so good to laugh so genuinely and freely.

He hadn’t laughed like this since, well… probably since their brief and lighthearted game of I Spy as they wandered the fearscapes. It was one of those moments that he and Jon had shared together in quiet solace and solidarity during quite literally the worst thing that had ever happened to them. The memory felt so distant now, but he held onto it like a precious keepsake, something special and private, tucked away in a small pocket just for him.

“You’re joking,” Tim’s voice was gruff with disbelief, staring at the pair of them as if he’d truly seen a ghost.

“What, is that so hard to believe?” Jon huffed petulantly. When he was met with numerous head nods, he rolled his eyes, trying to inject some seriousness into his tone but failing to hide the fond smile that found its home on his lips, “Fine, whatever. But I couldn’t just let this one good thing get away from me. I loved him, I had to do something.”

There was a soft “aww” from Sasha’s direction as Tim fistpumped the air, “Wahey! I knew we were living in an office romance!”

“Tim, you’re about to give poor Martin a heart-attack,” Sasha pointed out with some amusement to her tone, leaning over and patting Other Martin - whose face was currently buried in his hands and had turned a strawberry-esque shade of red at this point - on the knee.

“If you’re all quite done ,” Other Jon rushed to say, also not-so-subtly hiding his face behind his hand as he pressed his fingers to his temple, “I hardly think this discussion is appropriate when we have far more pressing matters at hand.”

“Yeah, like how Martin finally gets Jon to pull that stick out of his-”

“Tim,” Other Jon warned. Tim punched out a sigh as he collapsed back into the sofa dejectedly.

“Fine,” he conceded, then jabbed a finger towards Jon and Martin, “But we’re talking about this later. I have questions.”

Martin raised his hands placatingly as Jon huffed a soft chuckle beside him.

“It’s getting late, anyway,” Sasha interjected, “We should probably get you two set up before we all head home for the day.”

There was a sharp cough as Other Jon cleared his throat, the embodiment of composure, though the slightest tint to his cheeks still visible even to the untrained eye. He spoke once again with that even tone of authority, “Good idea. I will get our new… guests, settled. I’m sure you three still have plenty of work you could be doing in the meantime before finishing up for the evening.”

A groan from Tim, “Ugh, work. Gross.”

Sasha rolled her eyes and grabbed him by the collar, tugging him to his feet as she stood, “Come on, Stoker. Let’s leave the boys to it.”

And with that, everyone stood from their respective seats and began to file out of the breakroom. Sasha gave Jon and Martin a smile and wave as she walked by with Tim close in toe, who gave them a devious wink and finger guns before he was unceremoniously tugged through the door.

After bidding the two goodbye with a wave, Martin turned his attention back to his counterpart, who had yet to move from his position by the couch. He had a pensive expression on his face and looked more than a little uncomfortable, and Martin had to admit he did feel a bit bad egging Tim on like he did; he knew how he would have felt had the roles been reversed.

“Sorry if we made it weird,” he offered, his tone soft.

His voice seemed to jolt Other Martin out of whatever deep thoughts he had sunk into and he looked up, meeting Martin’s eye. He flailed with his words for a moment before he finally managed, “No! No no, it’s- it’s fine. Just a little…” he stole a quick glance in his Jon’s direction - who was busying himself with something unseen on his sleeve - before his eyes were back on Martin’s. “You know.”

He did know. All too well. He nodded as such.

“I’d, um- I’d really like to talk to you sometime, actually. If that’s possible.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Martin smiled warmly, recognising the apprehension in his younger-self’s voice, “Yeah, of course. I’d like that. Come find me sometime?”

Other Martin returned the smile, giving an assured nod and hurried after his two coworkers. 

A momentary silence filled the breakroom before the soft tap of Other Jon’s shoes could be heard stepping towards the door.

“Alright,” he said as he motioned with a wave, “Follow me.”

Chapter Text

The short walk to document storage was made in relative silence. The air was heavy with unsatisfied curiosities and questions left unanswered, but that might have been for the best. This was completely uncharted territory, and sure Martin had watched his fair share of wild time-travel movies, but he obviously didn’t actually know the first thing about any of this.

It was a weird change of pace, not having the answers readily available to him at the simple prompt of a question. Jon had practically been a walking encyclopaedia for the better part of the last year, and while Martin knew he was hesitant to give in to that particular part of himself he’d been all but forced into, it had been more than beneficial to them, and Martin certainly hadn’t minded that particular advantage.

While Jon hadn’t directly mentioned anything, it wasn’t difficult to pick up on the fact that it didn’t seem like he had any answers, either. Jon had said the phrase “I don’t know” more times since they’d landed here than Martin could even begin to parse in his recent memory. Which should be a good sign, right? No more Eye equals no more spooky, all-knowing Archivist powers. But it didn’t add up. In the dreaded quiet of the basement’s halls, flashes of the Panopticon came unbidden to the forefront of his mind, unwelcome and all too lucid in detail. The weight of the knife still too fresh in his memory, the acrid smell of blood still lingering on the outskirts of his senses. It made him want to throw up.

He tugged his boyfriend a little closer in the thought, their fingers interlaced securely between them as they walked. Jon glanced up to meet Martin’s eye at the motion, a curious look crossing his face.

Martin simply stared back, allowing himself a moment to just take him in. Etching every detail of the face he thought he’d never see again into his very core. He hadn’t quite had the time to properly process the fact that Jon was still here. With him. Alive.

A weight gripped his heart as the thought settled heavily against his chest. He’d come so close to losing him - like, actually losing him this time - and it would have been by his hand. The hammer responsible for the final nail in his coffin.

But against all odds, they made it out. An impossibility only conceived in their final moments so that Martin would drive a knife through the heart of the man he loved more than life itself.

A twisted joke, really.

He swallowed the tightness in his throat as those thick emotions - shoved down and away into the recesses of his mind - began clawing their way up and out as he lingered on the thought. Not now, he urged. Later. 

Instead, his lips pulled into a practised smile, hoping for reassuring but couldn’t be sure if his muscles obeyed him in that moment. The simple notion seemed to be satisfactory enough though, and Jon returned it with a small, crooked, wonderful smile of his own, and the simple gesture was almost enough to make him cry.

As the door to their new (old?) temporary living quarters came into view, Jon turned his attention back to the individual in front of them, breaking the tenuous silence with a light cough.

“Look, I- I understand you probably didn’t want to leave us to our own devices quite so soon, but you don’t have to accompany us if you have better things to do. I’m sure I can find wherever the cot is being kept here.”

Jon’s voice seemed to thwart some of the tension in the air, as Other Jon’s shoulders loosened slightly as he was addressed. He breathed a soft sigh before answering, “I did figure as much. But it’s fine, I… wanted some time alone with you both. To talk, away from the others.”

“Ah,” Jon acknowledged the sentiment as the door to document storage was pushed open, “Well, talk away, I suppose. We’re all ears.”

He ushered Martin in before following suit himself with Jon’s counterpart remaining hovering in the doorway, his arms folded close to his chest and leaning a shoulder against the doorframe. He regarded them quietly as Jon went about digging for the cot.

As the brief, stilted silence drifted on, Martin took a moment to search this other Jon’s face for… well, anything, really. Any inclination as to what he might be thinking or feeling, but he was just as hard to read as his Jon was when he’d first started working as his assistant. All sharp edges and closed off as tight as a bolted safe. Frustratingly so.

He couldn’t seem to keep Martin’s eye, though. That much he did notice.

“I want to know what happened to you… What happens to us,” he finally said. His voice was quiet, careful and measured, though laced with a curiosity and… possibly a pinch of concern, if Martin could place it right.

Jon straightened up then, the folded cot now bundled in his arms. He made a face that Martin recognised to be one of hesitation; the kind of look he often got when prompted about something personal he didn’t necessarily want to divulge. Martin kept quiet for the moment, though watched the exchange like a hawk lest it veer in a direction neither of them were comfortable with. The figurative wounds were still fresh, after all.

Jon cleared his throat and crossed the room to set the soon-to-be-cot down against the far wall. “What, ‘the end of the world’ doesn’t satisfy your burning curiosity?” Jon mused, forced humour injected into the question.

“Not really,” Other Jon responded, somewhat dryly. “Forgive me when I assume there’s more to the story than just that.”

Jon pursed his lips, and the glint of shame and guilt that passed his eyes didn't go unnoticed by Martin. His chest felt tight as he saw Jon falter for just a moment, his throat working as he digested the question.

“I made some bad decisions,” he eventually started; quietly, matter-of-factly, his eyes locked in a stalemate with the carpet at his feet. “People were hurt- were… were killed. People I- people I cared about.” He was quiet for a moment, a contemplative expression passing his face before he knelt down and began the assembly of the cot. Something to distract his hands, Martin noted silently. “I pushed everyone away when I needed them the most, and I paid the price for it. And even- even when I did have someone, I-” the laugh he rasped was harsh and humourless, “It still didn’t matter. The scorched path was laid out right in front of me and yet I still couldn’t see it. The world was torn to shreds and there was nothing I could do but watch it burn.”

“You were manipulated, Jon,” Martin’s voice said before he could stop himself. It was a gut reaction these days, to try and sully the hatred and blame Jon all too often directed inwards. Martin knelt by him, face pinched with concern, and reached out to still Jon’s trembling hands in his own. Jon’s posture loosened a bit at the contact, but he didn't look up to meet Martin’s eyes. “I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it. It wasn’t your fault. None of it was. There was no way you could have known.”

“If- if I’d just done more resear-”

“Jon.”

Jon pursed his lips, holding in whatever barrage of self-flagellating excuses he was about to make against himself. Martin was silently grateful, though this would need to be talked about, eventually. Now wasn’t the time, though. Not with…

Martin glanced over his shoulder to see Other Jon peering down at them, the crease between his brows as defined as ever. 

He pressed a soft kiss to Jon’s temple before giving his shoulder a quick squeeze - a silent I can take it from here - and standing. He caught the softening of Jon’s features out of the corner of his eye as he padded his way over to the Jon in the doorway.

“It’s difficult to talk about,” he offered, trying to keep his tone soft and an air of poise about himself. “We’ve been through a lot, and it’s hard to pinpoint exactly where things started going especially wrong outside of just ‘we accepted a job at the archives’. If things are headed in the same direction for you, you’re unfortunately already in it just by being here.”

He felt… oddly nervous. Scrutinised, as Other Jon eyed him as he spoke. He hadn’t felt that from Jon’s gaze in quite a long time, and it was a foreign feeling falling back into those old habits. He shook himself out of it and dug his hands into the pockets of his dirt-encrusted jacket.

Other Jon hummed lowly in acknowledgement, and his gaze seemed to scan Martin’s features, before glancing over his hair. He could have been imagining it, but it seemed as though something behind his eyes had… softened, in that moment. Martin didn’t really know what to do with that knowledge.

“I suppose you weren’t left entirely unaffected by whatever you both went through, either.”

Oh. Martin had to blink himself out of his wonderment at what seemed like… a genuine sentiment? Before he could get his tongue working again, “Uh- N… no. I guess not,” he laughed a little self-deprecatingly, “It’s been a rough few years.”

Other-Jon hummed again, more thoughtfully this time, and stole a glance towards Jon before his eyes landed on Martin once again.

“So. How do we stop it, then?”

The look Martin gave him must have given away that he really wasn’t expecting that question to come out of his mouth, so he continued.

“You haven’t said what exactly happened, but it sounds like there were some decisions and unknowns that were out of your control. If we’re destined for the same outcome, surely there must be something we can do to avoid it. To interrupt whatever… whatever it is you went through.”

“Maybe,” Martin offered with some hesitancy. He didn’t want to give too much merit to the idea, especially considering he and Jon had barely had a moment alone to talk it over themselves. “We don’t know for sure, but… it’s something we’ve at least considered. I don’t even know where we’d begin.”

The two were brought out of their discussion by a rattling behind them, and Martin glanced over to see Jon setting the neatly-assembled cot on its legs and unceremoniously nudging it against the wall with his knee.

“It’s too early to know,” Jon said with finality before padding over to the two of them, nestling up beside Martin as their hands so naturally found each other.

Martin eyed him carefully, noting the practised neutrality of Jon’s features as he reentered the conversation. “Jane Prentiss was one of the first catalysts that caused our… unfortunate spiral of events. No pun intended,” he murmured the last part to Martin, which got a small snort out of him. Other Jon eyed them strangely for a moment before it seems the name drop finally slotted into place in his mind.

“Wait, Jane Prentiss? The same Jane Prentiss from Timothy Hodge’s statement?”

“One and the same, unfortunately,” Jon remarked dryly, “She attacked the Institute. We made it out… mostly okay, though there are some details to discuss with everyone. Namely your Martin and Sasha.” Jon’s brow creased at the thought of his friends. Martin squeezed his hand.

Other Jon nodded slowly, “Alright… A discussion for the morning then, I suppose?”

“I think it would be best if everyone was present. Save us having to re-explain too much.”

“Of course.” Other Jon paused for a moment, looking deep in thought before he continued. “For what it’s worth, I… I do believe you. I don’t know how you got here or why, but we’ll figure this out.”

Jon smiled then, hesitantly but softly, “Thank you.”

Other Jon cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses in that very I’m-putting-on-my-boss-pants way he would do all too often back in their early archiving days.

“We unfortunately don’t have any spare changes of clothes we can offer on hand, however there is a bathroom with a shower upstairs by Research - as I’m sure you already know - that you are welcome to use. We don’t have much in the way of proper food in the Archives, though we do have plenty of instant noodle packets readily available at the behest of Tim, as well as an assortment of tea and coffee you can help yourselves to tonight. I’ll get Sasha and Tim to run down to the shops tomorrow morning to pick up some more… substantial options.

“If you would like changes of clothes, we can organise that as well. Just let us know. I’m… I'm sure Martin and I could find something appropriate for you both. All at the Institute’s expense, of course.”

Jon and Martin stood in stunned silence for longer than either of them would care to admit, Martin gaping at the generosity and Jon staring wide-eyed before he remembered how to speak.

“I- uh. Yes. Thank you. A- a change of clothes would be wonderful.”

“Sure. I’ll let you both get some rest. We have a lot to discuss in the morning.”

As Other Jon turned to leave, Jon interjected hurriedly, “Wait.”

His counterpart stopped, door halfway open with his hand on the doorknob, and glanced over his shoulder.

Jon seemed to contemplate something, the words not quite landing on his tongue right as he searched for what he wanted to say.

“I… I made a lot of mistakes, i-in my early days working as Head Archivist. It got to my head. Don’t… push your assistants away like I did. Martin especially, he’s- he’s trying, and I regret every breath I was too harsh on him. I… I-I-I just feel that- if I had known they only wanted what was best for me sooner, it might have made a difference,” his eyes searched his younger self’s face for any modicum of acknowledgement, any sign that he was at least listening, “That’s all.” His voice sounded so small, so unsure, and it made Martin’s heart ache for him.

Other Jon averted his gaze then, a look passing over his face as if pondering the thought, before giving a small nod as he lingered at the doorway for just a moment longer.

“We’ll see you in the morning,” he said softly. And with that, he shut the door.

Jon and Martin both stood there for a while after that. There was a heaviness to the air that Martin couldn’t quite parse, though he supposed that was quickly becoming par for the course.

He glanced at Jon in his periphery. His posture was rigid, a contemplative look on his face as he stared at - or through - the now closed door in front of them. His shoulders were tight, his brows pinched in that way they did when he was deep in thought, analysing something with deep intent. He looked distant. He looked exhausted, and the overwhelming instinct to protect Jon protect Jon protect Jon began firing on all cylinders. He hated seeing him so… worn out. Jon had hurt enough for the world, and he wasn’t about to see it happen again.

Martin let a small, sympathetic sigh huff from his nose, briefly uncurling his hand from Jon’s before wrapping it around his middle.

“Jon?” he tried, softly.

The name seemed to startle him out of whatever haze he was under, and he looked up to meet Martin’s eye. His expression softened a little, and Martin felt his heart flutter.

“Okay?” The question was cautious, the weight of, well… everything, still clearly heavy on his mind. Jon offered a small smile, though the hesitancy behind it still fluttered by.

“I’m- Yes, I’m okay. Today has just been… a lot.”

Martin hummed in agreement, “Yeah, it has.”

They stood in a contemplative yet comfortable silence for a moment, before Martin untucked himself from Jon’s side and took a step back, his arms extended and doing little grabby-motions with his hands.

This seemed to perk Jon up a little and a small, amused smile tugged at his lips as he raised a questioning eyebrow.

“Come here,” Martin urged, a smile pulling at his own lips as he took another step backward towards the cot, “You need a break from all this. Get over here.”

With a feigned incredulous eye roll, Jon obliged, padding his way after Martin. As soon as he was within range, Martin plopped down onto the mattress and wrapped his arms around Jon’s middle, tugging him close and all but nuzzling his face into the fabric of Jon’s shirt at his chest. This pulled a soft chuckle out of Jon and, in turn, he draped his arms around Martin’s shoulders, loosely hugging his head in his arms.

Martin let loose a long, deep sigh from his lungs and relaxed into the touch, and Jon seemed to do the same as his shoulders sagged.

“Don’t worry yourself too much,” Martin murmured against him, his voice muffled by the fabric, “You’re allowed to take a second to relax, I think you’ve earned it at this point.”

He felt the vibration against his cheek as Jon hummed in response, and the lips against his hair sent a welcome tingle across his scalp.

“I know, I know,” Jon breathed, “I’m just… I’m restless. You know me.”

Martin hummed teasingly, “Unfortunately.”

An offended tut was all he heard before Jon flicked his ear and jeered playfully, “Arse.”

Martin just laughed and squeezed Jon tighter. He didn’t want to let him go. For so long he’d just wanted… well, this. A quiet moment. A safe moment. A moment they could just be. And now that he’d found it, he was going to savour every second of it.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Martin professed quietly, the soft reverie of the admission bleeding into the four simple words. The sting behind his eyes was back again, and he squeezed them shut in hopes it would be enough to banish them.

Jon’s fingers ghosted over his shoulders before they settled by his jaw, and gingerly tilted his face up, Martin’s eyes fluttering open to meet his. It seemed whatever internal battlefield Martin had been warring through for the better part of the last hour, Jon shared in at least some of the sentiment too. He didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to hide it on his face.

Wordlessly, Jon leant down and pressed their lips together, so tender and sweet and Martin ached to dissolve whatever distance remained between the tangible things they called bodies. Their mouths fit together so perfectly, as though cast from the same mold, created with the sole intent of unity.

They kissed sweetly, unhurried, expelling gentle breaths into each other's mouths as they savoured the time they finally had to themselves, and it almost felt as though they had all the time in the world. Martin’s hands travelled over Jon’s back, lightly inching under the hem of his shirt and holding him ever closer. 

Jon drew back only briefly enough to shift himself around, sliding a leg onto the cot beside Martin, his hands never leaving their place against Martin’s jaw. Martin’s lips chased Jon’s as he moved, as though drawn by an invisible tether neither one of them was willing nor wanting to break, and as soon as Jon had settled close by Martin’s side, he pressed their lips together once more, his hands moving to card through Martin’s curls.

“I love you,” Jon breathed between kisses, the undeniable fondness coating his words like honey sending Martin’s heart aflutter.

“I love you, too,” he responded, his voice a near whisper as he breathed it against Jon’s lips. He would never deny Jon that assurance, that undeniable certainty, the words practically written into the stars themselves.

After an undetermined amount of time neither of them cared to consider, they drew apart, lips slick and thoroughly out of breath. If it were up to Martin, he would kiss this man silly until the end of time itself, but unfortunately oxygen was something he rather needed, so it would have to wait. Instead, he dipped his head to rest his foreheads against Jon’s, not quite wanting to break that distance just yet. He felt the ghost of a sigh brush over his cheek as Jon settled against him, both seeming content to just soak in each other's presence as though their very existences depended on it.

Though the silence between them was comfortable, Martin’s mind kept brushing shoulders with his thoughts from earlier, nagging at him like an unrelenting bug bite.

“So how have you been… y’know, feeling? Since we got here?” Martin asked, keeping his voice soft enough so as not to disturb the solace of the moment.

“Oh. I uh… I’ll be honest, I was hesitant to bring it up because I… don’t actually know,” Jon paused, his fingers curling mindless shapes against the nape of Martin’s scalp. Martin knew well enough that it was a ruminative pause more than anything, and hummed softly to encourage him to continue.

“I’ve been trying to get a feel for, well… everything really, since we got here. It hasn’t exactly been easy, what with all the…” he rolled his wrist some, “Distractions. But- but it feels like my Knowledge is being… blocked? Somehow? It’s still there, I can feel it, I just… it’s like there’s a pane of glass between myself and the Eye. I know it’s there, I just can’t seem to reach it.”

Martin was quiet for a long moment. His worry and anxiety had taken so many forms since they’d gotten here, but this wasn’t exactly something he had considered. His brows pinched together as the thought solidified in his mind.

“So the connection wasn’t severed,” he didn’t have to ask. He couldn’t bring himself to hide the pained resignation to his words.

Jon pursed his lips. “No, it… it doesn’t appear so. Not completely. It feels as though we’ve ended up in another place where the Fears have developed much like they did in our own world. I…” Martin heard him swallow dryly, “I think their Eye knows I’m here.”

Martin didn’t respond. His thoughts were swimming and he couldn’t come up with the words to describe how he felt. It would be just their luck to end up in a copy-cat universe of their own where they’d have the potential to suffer all over again just how they did back home. It made his stomach twist in ugly knots and he didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

Jon must have noticed the heaviness to his silence, as his voice was soft and hesitant.

“Martin, I’m- I’m so sorry. If I’d known what would happen I wouldn’t have asked you to-”

“Don’t,” any conviction Martin tried to push into his voice died on his tongue as his voice cracked, “Don’t, Jon. I hate that I hurt you, but I don’t regret that we’re here. It’s better than- than you dying, or- or worse-”

His voice caught in his throat as Jon’s arms wrapped tight around him, encompassing the aching he felt deep within his heart and soul in a soft blanket. The sting of tears threatened to overtake him as he buried his face in Jon’s shoulder.

“I love you,” Jon said softly, assuredly, “I love you so much. You’ve done so much- given up so much for me. I don’t think I could ever make it up to you.”

Martin’s voice was small when he spoke, almost pleading - god he must sound pathetic, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care. “Just… Don’t leave again. Please? It- it scared me so much waking up to find you just- just gone, and-” he choked out a wet, self-deprecating laugh. “That probably sounds terrible, doesn’t it? Obviously you don’t have to stay, just- just tell me? Please? Don’t just go off on your own- bad things happened when you go off on your own and the thought of losing you scares me so much, Jon-”

“I won’t,” Jon hushed softly, pressing his lips to his temple as Martin’s words broke off into a sob, “I-I-I won’t. I promise. I know that… that probably doesn’t mean much anymore but- but I promise. I promise.”

Jon was right. The words seemed to slip through his grasp as if made of fog. Intangible and ready to dissipate at a single breath. They’d made this promise before; one way or another, they’d told each other, together. But it wasn’t that easy. It was never that easy, and it was never going to be that easy. Every turn of every corner threatened to tear them apart, shred them to pieces until there was nothing left but the whisper of a story they once had.

But despite it all, they were still here. They were still together, and Jon was still holding him and telling him that he loved him. That had to mean something. And despite the thrum of doubt that twisted and curled in the recesses of his mind, he couldn’t help but flounder for that single bead of hope, tenuous as it may be. Because he loved Jon. Unquestionably, more than anything, he loved him. And maybe it was stupid to reach for that thread, but he had never claimed to be a smart man.

So, despite himself, Martin nodded. Small, and tentative, but he nodded. Because maybe… maybe that could be enough.

Chapter Text

To Jon and Martin's surprise, the rest of their night was… restful. Once emotions running high had eased somewhat, they’d eventually made their way to the showers to do their best to scrub as much of the crusted blood and muck from their skin and hair as they could, before reluctantly re-donning their least offensive layers of clothes and heading back to document storage. Call it the exhaustion, but as soon as their heads hit the pillow, they were out to the world.

They woke slowly the next morning, the groggy cloud of the sleepless last few months only lingering faintly in their peripherals as they indulged in a much needed and well deserved sleep-in.

Jon was the first to rouse, his eyelids fluttering open slowly as the still dim room came vaguely into focus. The events of the night previous played just barely in his awareness, long enough to recall where they were and that they were, relatively speaking, safe. And once that notion had settled comfortably in his subconscious, he nudged it away, and instead nestled in closer against Martin’s side and tucked his head neatly under his chin, allowing his eyes to drift shut once more.

The weight of Martin’s arm over his waist and their legs tangled together was like the weighted blanket he never had but always distantly wished he could, and he breathed it in, his arm readjusting to hug loosely over Martin’s chest and shoulder. Without much conscious thought it seemed, Martin’s arm tightened around him and he heard a low, sleep-distilled sound escape his nose, somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

A soft, sweet something settled into Jon’s chest in that quiet, peaceful moment. And the longer he sat with it, the more he recognised its warmth.

It was a trace of how he’d felt in those lazy mornings in Scotland.

The word contentment flickered dimly at the back of his mind. A feeling he’d resigned to being a thing of the past, no longer attainable in a world that seemed hellbent on his downfall; it just wasn’t meant for him. But, well. Maybe he was wrong. And maybe the cruel, unrelenting strings of fate were somehow wrong, too.

He shook his head internally. Too early for heavy thoughts like that. He could get existential later after some breakfast.

He felt Martin’s fingers tangle loosely in the back of his shirt as a soft, clumsy kiss was pressed to his forehead, and he couldn't help the contented hum that sounded from his throat.

“Hi,” he murmured into the fabric of Martin’s shirt.

Martin simply breathed a sigh in response, nestling his cheek against the top of Jon’s head as he refused to let the land of the waking fully embrace him just yet. Jon couldn’t argue. He’d stay like this forever if it were up to him.

“D’you sleep okay?” Martin drawled softly into his hair.

His usual knee-jerk response of “yes” began to form on Jon’s lips before he really even gave the question much proper thought, but then his brain caught up with him. The word petered off in his throat, and he paused. He… he did sleep okay. Very okay, in fact.

The realisation hit him like a tidal wave, and would have quite literally knocked him off his feet had he been upright. He couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to him sooner.

He must have been silent for just long enough, because Martin prompted him with a soft, “Love?”

“I…” Jon trailed off, thoughts panning back to the night before and trying to find any sign that maybe he was mistaken, because surely it was too good to be true. But no, the more he dug into his dreams, the more he came back with numbed, muted nothingness.

He shifted to prop himself up on an elbow, catching Martin’s eye with his own that he was sure were as wild as he felt. “I didn’t dream.”

Martin squinted up at him for a long moment, brain working before the lag seemed to catch up with him and his eyes blew wide, mouth forming a small ‘o’.

“No nightmares?” he asked eventually, his voice small but hopeful.

An elated smile spread across Jon’s face, and he could hardly find it in himself to care when his voice wavered a little. “No nightmares,” he echoed.

Next thing he knew, he was being scooped up into Martin’s arms in a firm, all-encompassing hug and the two broke out into giddy, gleeful laughter.

It’s only been one night, he mind was eager to remind him, it could just be a fluke. But the pure joy bubbling up from Martin all around him was enough to drown out that nasty, nattering voice. Even if just for the moment.

Maybe it was just for one night, where his dreams were quiet and forgettable. But it had to mean something. Every night for so many years he’d been forced to indulge in the voyeuristic nightmares of the Watcher, unable to do anything but drink in the fear of those unlucky enough to have their stories pulled from their throats, that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have dreams that were simply and utterly his own, or not at all.

A foreign concept. But one he would be happy to get used to, fates be willing.

After some time spent just in each other's company, they eventually rose, if only for the fact that the rumbling of stomachs interrupted their languid morning murmurings more than once, and they both really needed to use the loo.

Once their bleary eyes and bed hair had been put to rest for the morning, they made their way to the breakroom. Even before they had the room in their sights, Jon could already hear the familiar raised banter and bickering of one half of the Archives crew that would often welcome him each morning as he entered the office.

They rounded the corner, and the first thing to greet them was Tim's overly boisterous salutations.

“Hey, there they are! Morning, love-birds,” he cooed, swinging his legs where they hung from his throne atop the lunch table.

A strategically placed elbow from Sasha quieted whatever tirade was about to befall them from Tim’s mouth as she waved the two of them over, smiling as bright as the morning sun itself, “Morning, guys. How’d you sleep?”

Martin was still rubbing sleep from his eyes, so Jon decided it best to take point with this one. He returned her smile as he led his drowsy boyfriend into the breakroom.

“The best sleep we’ve gotten in a long time. Thank you again, by the way.”

Sasha waved a dismissive hand and leaned an arm against Tim’s shoulder, “We checked on you a few hours ago and you were still dead to it, so we figured you needed it.”

Jon hummed noncommittally, “I was going to ask why you were in so early, but I realise I don’t actually know what time it is.”

“It’s about half ten. And,” she added quickly as Jon opened his mouth, “for the record, we did get in early.”

“We went shopping,” Tim twinkled his fingers magically at the notion, “Boss and Marto are still out - hilarious, by the way - fussing over clothes for you both.”

“Poor guy,” Martin chuckled, which pulled a slight wince out of Jon.

“I did tell him to go easy on him,” Jon muttered.

“Nah,” Tim waves a hand, not even remotely trying to hide the glee from his voice, “I’ve never seen Martin go as beet-red as he did when Jon suggested they go clothes shopping together. It’s so painfully domestic, I’m sure he’s getting a right kick out of it.”

“I dunno,” Martin crooned, “I might've thought it was some cruel ploy to utterly ruin me in public if you’d ask me to go shopping alone with you back then,” he teased, which really wasn’t helping the ever-gruelling guilt Jon felt whenever he so much as thought about how he’d treated Martin all those years ago. The pathetic look on his face must have portrayed as such as Martin nudged him gently with his elbow and gave him that ‘I still loved you’ smile.

Sasha rolled her eyes as Tim sniggered at the comment, the amused smile on her face betraying the air of seriousness she all but tried and failed to inject into her tone.

“If you’re all done bullying poor Martin - which, I needn’t remind you is strike one in the group chat, Timothy Stoker - we do actually have something to show you two,” she said, her eyes twinkling with anticipation.

“Oh! Right!” Tim shot up and slipped off the table to pad over to the fridge.

He threw the door open with a flourish as Jon and Martin peered around him, “Ta-da! Elias is going to be quaking when he finds out we used his corporate card to stock the breakroom to the brim.”

“We also got you breakfast,” Sasha grinned as she pulled out two paper bags from the fridge, “Mind, we didn’t know when you two would be waking up, so you’ll have to nuke them in the microwave. But we figured, what better way to start the day than with some mediocre, reheated breakfast bagels?”

Jon and Martin were almost left speechless, not only by the gesture of a provided breakfast, but also by the amount of food they’d managed to pack into the modestly-sized-at-best fridge, which was normally home to just a few cartons of milk and Tim’s leftover containers he swore up and down he would get around to eating.

Now, there was a healthy array of packaged meats, fruits, vegetables as well as a plentiful assortment of other goodies at their beck and call. Jon’s fingers twitched as he spied the chocolates.

They thanked their friends (friends!) profusely and savoured their marvellously average bagels as they idly chatted around the lunch table, each nursing a warm cup of tea - courtesy of Martin, of course. Tim and Sasha carried on about work at the Archives and peppered Jon and Martin with questions about how different their experiences were back home, and they regaled some stories of their own in turn.

It was… wonderfully mundane. Truth be told, Jon couldn’t even remember the last time he’d simply sat with his assistants and just talked with them, even in his early days in his Archival role. It was nice, and something ached deep within Jon’s chest at the thought that he’d deliberately avoided this all those years ago and had no idea what he was missing. Next time, he would always tell himself. Until there was no next time.

Time seemed to slip through their fingers as they prattled on in light company, until their idle chit-chat was interrupted by an approaching sound of bustling in the hall. The conversation hushed only momentarily before Other Jon and Martin strode into the room, shopping bags slung over both of their arms. It was a sight to see, and not one any of them were particularly expecting - Other Martin was practically beaming as he greeted them with a near breathless “Oh, you’re up!”, and Other Jon was looking far less agitated than anticipated as he gave them all a practised nod and professional “Good morning”.

“Sooooo,” Tim crooned as he leaned back in his chair, precariously balancing it on its hind legs, “How’d shopping go?”

“Great, actually!” Other Martin responded as he gathered their bounty of bags together and proudly planted them on the table, “Honestly, we didn’t really know where to start, so we just bought some things we both already had in our wardrobes and went from there. Kind of a weird experience re-buying things you already own, but also kind of fun?”

“We tried to get an assortment of things, as the clothes on your backs have obviously seen better days. Pyjamas, we decided, were a priority.” Other Jon added, a glint of pride crossing his face that Jon wasn't sure anyone else might have noticed but him.

Martin was instantly on his feet, peering into the bags as though the wonders of the world themselves were contained within. Jon followed suit, pulling a few pieces out to examine them avidly. 

“I feel like I’m just repeating myself at this stage, but… thank you for this. Truly.”

“Don’t mention it,” Other Martin’s smile softened, and Jon couldn’t help but return the sentiment. Martin had always been so earnest and sought out any way he could help anyone who needed it. It was nice to know some things never changed, even between realities. 

They enthusiastically excused themselves to get changed into something from their newly acquired wardrobes, and - as to be expected - were both quite pleased with the selections they’d been offered. Martin changed into a soft, green cardigan and the first pair of jeans he pulled out of his bag, while Jon opted for a pair of slacks and a crisp, white button-down that was quickly covered by a knitted jumper he promptly pilfered from Martin’s stash. He was practically swimming in it, but the desired effect of cosy was masterfully achieved. The only protests from Martin were why do you look good in literally anything and that he couldn’t kiss Jon fast enough.

A quick snog and outfit change later, they rejoined their compatriots back in the breakroom. 

The shift in mood was almost immediately noticeable as the two took their seats back at the lunch table (Jon catching Other Martin’s quiet “Wait, isn’t that…” as he stared at the jumper).

Other Jon officiously cleared his throat before addressing them both, “I should let you know, Elias called me into his office this morning. While he danced around the point as gracefully as he could, he clearly knows something is going on down here. ”

Ah . So they were getting right into it, then. The mention of Elias instinctually caused Jon to tense, his hand searching almost unthinkingly for Martin’s hand beside him, who seemed to be doing the same. Their fingers laced together firmly and he nodded, slowly, trying to parse what that could even begin to mean for them.

“I see,“ he managed carefully, a slight frown pinching his brow, “I had worried that that might be the case.”

“I did my best to feign ignorance, but from what I could gather, he doesn’t actually seem to have any idea that you two are here. Just that something is amiss.”

Oh. Jon blinked, sharing a glance with Martin who also seemed just as taken aback by this piece of information. He shot a dubious look Other Jon’s way, “How certain are you of that?”

“Fairly,” Other Jon offered easily, “Obviously I can’t give you one-hundred percent, but I am confident. He seemed… frustrated, by my lack of cooperation to indulge him. He wanted answers, and seemed to have a palpable desperation that only someone lacking in them would reasonably have.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully, mulling this over in his head. Was it possible Jonah couldn't See them? Were they hidden? Somewhere in his brain, that could make sense on some level, though to what degree he wasn’t entirely sure yet.

“Alright…” Jon nodded, hesitantly optimistic, “Alright. If… if Elias doesn’t Know we’re here by now, then I suppose now is as good a time as ever to give you some information.” 

“Oh- You’re sure?” Martin asked, almost sounding surprised.

“No,” Jon gave a small huff of a laugh, running his fingers back through the tangles framing his face, “No, I’m not sure. But it’s a start.”

And so, they explained everything.

Well, almost everything.

All of the important details were summarised, at least. They talked about Elias; explained why they needed to be weary of him at the best of times and what he was capable of at the worst, though Jon pointedly left out the part about his true identity of a body-hopping Jonah Magnus. Something scratched at the back of his mind about that piece of information - it was important, most certainly, but all the more reason not to fumble it at the wrong time. It would be easier on the others to keep their wits about them if he was still just Elias Bouchard in their minds anyway, he reasoned.

Jon spoke on his own involvement then, explaining Elias’ motives and having zero control over his own inevitable role in the end of the world, and his eventual development of his abilities since his promotion to Head Archivist. It was harder to talk about than he’d anticipated, and where Jon faltered, Martin picked up for him, and Jon had never been more grateful for him.

They noted Martin’s brush turn head-on collision with the Lonely, and briefly went over their time in Scotland with longing fondness; a gentle break in the harsh reality of their story. 

Sasha seemed especially interested in the “fourteen Fears” they kept mentioning, so Jon took some time to go over the basics - to Tim’s intrigue, at the mention of one Robert Smirke.

“I’ll make a comprehensive list of each one so I don’t have to go about verbally explaining them in depth, but the main culprit at play at the Institute is the Eye,” Jon explained. “The first Entity we really encountered on a more… antagonistic front was the Corruption. If your timeline plays out the same way ours did, Jane Prentiss is going to attack the Institute, but not before she keeps Martin hostage in his flat for almost two weeks.”

“Me?” Other Martin asked, his voice breaking over the single syllable, and a well of guilt and sympathy fought for dominance in Jon’s chest. 

“Unfortunately. Martin followed up on a statement I had him looking into - Carlos Vittery - and had an unfortunate encounter with Jane Prentiss in the basement of his building. She followed him home thereafter.”

“I dropped my phone as I tried to get away, and she used it to text everyone that I was sick with a stomach bug,” Martin added softly, expression pinching, “So no one thought to check on me.”

The guilt won him over, and Jon softly bumped his shoulder with Martin’s and gave his hand a gentle squeeze of solidarity. He would never allow himself that mistake again.

“With that being said,” Jon continued, turning his attention back to Other Martin, “I don’t believe it’s a good idea for you to go home next week. Perhaps if we can interrupt that sequence of events from happening, it could buy us some time.”

“Seriously?” Other Martin questioned, his voice high with anxiety. “And stay where? At a hotel?”

“Here at the Institute is always an option, we certainly wouldn’t mind. But just- just anywhere but alone in your flat,” Jon urged, “We don’t know if she meant for the attack to be directed towards Martin specifically, but it was made very clear after the fact that it was largely a targeted move against myself, and by association, the rest of you.”

“You can stay with either of us as well, Martin,” Sasha offered with a smile, and Tim gave an affirming thumbs up. “You know you’re always welcome if you need it.” 

“Oh,” he intoned softly, as if almost taken aback by the simple gesture. His mouth worked briefly before he continued, his lips pulling into a small smile full of gratitude, “Thanks, Sasha.”

“We can work out the details later, but on another slightly jarring note,” Jon continued, “We should also mention that there is an elaborate tunnel system underneath the Archives.”

This piece of information seemed to pull exasperated noises out of everyone in reaction, Other Jon contributing a shocked “tunnels?!” to the chorus. Jon nodded.

“This is unfortunately how Jane Prentiss got into the Institute, so I don’t believe there’s much to be done there, though the knowledge is obviously good to have. This is also where…” Jon’s voice trailed off, his expression pinching slightly.

Martin offered him a sympathetic look and picked up where he seemed fairly certain Jon’s train of thought was headed.

“There’s something else that ended up living in the tunnels. A table with a web pattern got delivered to the Institute that had an extremely dangerous creature of the Stranger inside it. It-” he faltered as his own lips pursed, forcing the words from his chest. “It took Sasha from us. Erased the real her from our lives and memories and took her place as a gross copy. It was months before… If it wasn’t for Jon, none of us would have ever known.”

There was a beat, before Sasha stated, hesitantly, “That’s why you didn’t recognise me. I noticed the way you looked at me when we found you.”

Jon offered her a sad smile, the ache in his chest resurfacing, “It didn’t take me long to figure it out. We found some old tapes with her voice on them… you sound just like her.”

A solemn silence fell over the room as everyone seemed to wrestle with that piece of information, before-

“Right!” Tim interrupted with renewed - though obviously forced - gusto to his voice as he slapped his hands on his knees, “So no Artefact Storage for Sasha and Marto gets to bunk with one of us next week. Anything else we should know about? Anything spooky I should avoid?” Tim wiggled his eyebrows. Jon gave him a dry look.

“No,” Jon responded flatly, “Though if things do go south and we can’t avoid the attack, just be prepared for us to have a matching spread of worm scars,” he motioned vaguely to himself.

Jon couldn’t tell if Tim’s dejected pout came from the possibility of being prayed on by ravenous, flesh-hungry worms in his near future, or the fact that he didn’t get any sort of ominous warning of future danger lingering around the corner for him to look out for. Either way, he seemed disappointed, and Jon the warmth that spread through Jon’s chest from the sheer ridiculousness of it didn’t feel so out of place.

Chapter Text

The rest of the week went by, surprisingly, without much incident. Jon and Martin more or less kept to themselves most of the time, leaving the in-universe Archival team to work and remain as productive as they could on their day-to-day to keep the suspicion of prying eyes low, though now with the added distraction of having Jon and Martin mere walls away on top of Tim’s usually questionable-at-best work ethic.

Some near-misses with Elias notwithstanding - even if Jon’s abilities felt somewhat subdued in their current predicament, that prickling feeling at the back of his skull whenever Elias was just around a corner still seemed to be working at enough capacity to still be useful, thank god - things had been largely uneventful.

As previously discussed, come Monday evening, Other Martin didn’t go home after the day’s work had finished up.

They’d come to the conclusion that he should spend at least the week away from home, just to be on the safe side, and they would check back in once the week was up to see if there were any unsavoury developments with Prentiss and his flat.

There had been some very heated discussions between Sasha and Tim as to who would get to have a cosy week in with Martin (Sasha’s words), and she’d eventually won out under the strict conditions (demands) from Tim that Martin would then stay with him for the second half of the week. Jon and Martin couldn’t help but listen with distracted fondness as they bickered amongst themselves over something seemingly so trivial, and Jon wondered if that achingly melancholic pang in his chest would ever go away.

Something Jon hadn’t really expected to notice was the subtle change in attitude this universe’s Jon was seeming to exhibit towards his Martin. So imperceptive at first, he almost didn’t pay it much mind. But Jon was so intimately familiar with how he used to act towards Martin, that the softened “thank you”s when tea was offered, or the lighter comments when a report was left on his desk were practically shaking him by the shoulders. A sense of pride welled within him at the thought that maybe his words had made a difference after all.

All things considered, the uneventfulness should have been a good thing. But Jon was never the type to eagerly sit on the sidelines twiddling his thumbs, and he couldn’t seem to shake the restlessness that gradually overtook him as the days dragged by. The mere idea that he couldn’t do anything outside of their normal research tactics was starting to drive him up the wall, and his jittery hands and pacing like a caged animal was clearly starting to worry Martin as the days went on.

Martin did what he could, stilling Jon’s animated hands when he’d worked himself up and offering an ear to his frustrations. He provided closeness and comfort and a consistent anchor of stability when Jon simply didn’t know what to do with himself, and he was ever grateful, as always.

Jon’s buzzing energy must not have gone unnoticed outside of their little bubble, as at the end of their second week on Friday night, Tim burst into their room proclaiming, “You’re comin’ to drinks, lads!”

Next thing they knew, Jon and Martin were being dragged out of the Archives and the six of them were huddled in a booth at the pub just down the street that Jon had only caved into attending a handful of times before. Tim sauntered back to their table with an impressively precarious armful of drinks and slid them to their respective hands before scooting in next to Sasha.

The night was tame and surprisingly relaxing - the pub they frequented never got too busy, the music never too loud and the lights never too harsh. It was a good step away from the confines of Jon’s own, tumultuous brain telling him he wasn’t doing enough in the face of their inevitable, enclosing doom. 

“So what’s the plan for the weekend then, hm?” Sasha asked, waving her glass in Jon and Martin’s direction.

“Ah, I suppose the same as the rest of the week?” Jon offered, exchanging a confirming glance with Martin, who simply shrugged a shoulder in response.

“Yeah, I mean- not much else for us at the moment?” Martin said, “Probably best if we lay low anyway, at least for the moment.”

“Are you sure you’ll be fine at the Institute all weekend?” Other Martin asked.

Martin nodded, “Yeah. The Archives have an interesting vibe,” he wiggled his fingers, “about them when no one’s around, but I think we can manage.”

Tim snorted, “Since when are you at the Archives after hours? I thought that would be more Jon’s schtick.”

Both Jons made disapproving noises, which pulled a chuckle from Tim’s chest, and Martin grinned behind his glass.

“After I was trapped in my flat by Prentiss for two weeks, Jon offered to let me stay at the Archives until I could get a new place sorted.”

“That was rather kind of me,” Other Jon commented wryly into his glass, and Martin rolled his eyes fondly.

“It was, I’ll have you know,” Martin said, brandishing his glass for emphasis, “Nicest thing anyone had ever done for me, if I’m being honest.”

“Surely I’ve raised the bar a little since then,” Jon said.

“S’why I said ‘had’,” Martin smiled at him, “I don’t think anything could top Scotland.”

Jon hummed amiably as he sipped from his drink, and Sasha leaned forward, resting her elbows against the wood surface of the table, “You’ve mentioned Scotland before. You should definitely elaborate more on that.”

Jon paused a moment before setting his glass down, fingers resting lightly against the rim, “There’s not too much more to tell. As we said, it was a brief respite from all the madness before things really went downhill. But…” Jon lingered on the thought for a moment, looking wistfully into his glass, “But I don’t think I’ve been happier, than those few weeks we had there.”

Martin lightly bumped their shoulders together, pulling Jon’s gaze from the glass to his. Jon’s smile was fond when their eyes met.

“The safehouse itself left some things to be desired, but the Scottish Highlands were really beautiful,” Martin added.

“Did you get to see any highland cows?” Other Martin asked, a twinkle in his eye.

Martin beamed back at him, “So many highland cows! We’d pass a whole field of them on our way to the village to pick up supplies.”

“The first time we saw them, I thought he was going to pass out from excitement,” Jon said, an amused smile tugging at his lips.

“Well I’m sorry you couldn’t appreciate a good cow when you saw one,” Martin responded with feigned indignation.

Jon laughed, “I came around eventually! They were very good cows.”

“Stop! I’m going to get a toothache,” Tim threw his hand against his chest dramatically, drawing various eyerolls from the others.

“Was Scotland also when this,” Other Jon motioned vaguely between the two, “happened?”

“Yes, Scotland was when this,” Jon motioned between them both, deliberately mimicking his tone, “happened.”

“I suppose I’ve just been curious. Martin and I aren’t exactly the closest, even when it comes to our working relationship.”

Jon noticed Martin’s poor counterpart shrink in on himself a little at that, and Jon opened his mouth to say something when Martin interrupted, “I don’t know - trauma makes the heart grow fonder?”

Jon nearly choked on his own spit. Tim barked with laughter across the table.

“Martin! ” Jon choked out.

“What? That’s basically what happened!”

“Maybe, but you don’t have to phrase it like that! Has my companionship meant nothing to you?”

Martin snorted as he leaned against him, “Only the most, love.”

Jon huffed petulantly, but leaned into the touch nonetheless. He cleared his throat before he continued, “Anyway. Yes, Scotland was when we confessed our undying love for each other,” he said with a playfully sarcastic note, waving his hand, “It became agonisingly clear to the both of us that we had feelings for each other well before then once we had The Talk. But things were… complicated, before we moved to the safehouse, which made discussing feelings a little difficult.”

“You did ask me to run away with you to gouge my eyes out,” Martin commented, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, “In hindsight, that should’ve probably clued me in at least a bit.”

“Yes, I did do that, didn’t I,” Jon murmured thoughtfully as confused and disgusted noises sounded from around them.

“Y’know, not gonna ask,” Tim said with finality as he took a swig of his drink, “Sounds romantic, though.”

The rest of the night carried on much the same, keeping conversation light and in good spirits as they ate their fill of greasy pub appetisers, and eventually made their separate, lightly buzzed ways to their respective dwellings.

Jon and Martin tottered their way back to the Archives, arms linked and jovial chatter carrying them through the brisk night air. There was almost a… lightness, to it. A temporary weight that felt as though it’d been lifted from Jon’s shoulders, the burden of its encumbrance shifted, if only to allow him to stand a little taller. Breathe a little easier.

Maybe it was just the alcohol talking. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.

The short walk back brought them to the front of the Magnus Institute where they all but stumbled their way up the front steps and inside, winding through the building until they were back in the basement levels of the Archives. Home sweet temporary home.

By the time they’d kicked their shoes off and fumbled their way through their bedtime routines, it was well past midnight and the haze of sleep was beginning to pull at their eyelids.

They slipped under the covers of the cot, Martin still giggling from the sight of Jon absolutely sending it trying to get his pyjama bottoms on, and Jon hardly able to find it in himself to feel anything but utter adoration for the man.

He curled in close against Martin’s form, his head fitting into the space under Martin’s chin like a well-loved puzzle piece as an arm came to rest over his back, pulling him ever closer as he felt the ghosting of lips against his hair. His sigh was content, and he felt Martin smile.

“I had fun tonight,” Jon murmured lazily into the soft fabric of Martin’s shirt.

Martin hummed softly, his fingers tracing meaningless shapes against the exposed skin of Jon’s arm, “‘m glad you had fun, love. Was nice to unwind with everyone.”

Jon returned with his own listless sound of affirmation, relaxing into the touch as the fog of sleep slowly settled over the room. Martin’s chest bounced a little as he huffed amusedly, “We’ll have to thank Tim for the invite tomorrow.”

Jon groaned at the thought, though mostly in good humour. “I’m sure he’ll only take that graciously and most certainly won’t make a huge deal out of it,” he mumbled.

Martin snorted, and Jon could hear the eyeroll in his voice, “Oh, what a burden to bear.”

The quiet chuckles they shared slowly petered off, the silent hum of the room only broken up by their soft, even breaths. The rhythmic sound was comforting, and Jon slowly began to drift into sleep, when Martin’s voice - tentative and so quiet that Jon almost wasn’t sure it was meant for his ears - pulled him back.

“I miss them,” he said simply, and Jon didn’t need to ask who he was talking about. His lips pursed for a moment as his arms curled tighter around Martin’s form, and something heavy and longing twisted in his chest.

“I miss them, too,” he responded softly.

A small breath left Martin’s nose, not quite a sigh, “It’s weird, you know? I’d really thought that seeing Tim and Sasha again would make it hurt less, but it almost makes me miss them more. I just wish they could’ve made it to the end with us.”

Jon was quiet for a moment. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been thinking something similar since the rest of the group had accepted them into their numbers. It was a strange feeling he was finding it difficult to put a name to. Not quite grief, not quite guilt. But he was grateful, though, somewhere amongst the swirling uncertainty.

“I know what you mean,” he said eventually, “I’m still getting used to the fact that Tim doesn’t want to rip my throat out anytime I so much as breathe. I really regret that I never got the chance to make things right with him,” his voice grew quieter as he spoke.

Martin made a soft noise of sympathy as he pressed a kiss to Jon’s temple, “Tim was angry at all of us at the end, I don’t know if we could have done much differently.”

“Mmh. You know, I often used to wonder what I would do with a second chance. I don’t know if I’m really living up to the expectation I set for myself,” he said sardonically.

Martin let out a contemplative hum as he stared up at the ceiling, “That’s okay.”

Jon shifted his head a little, “That’s okay?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah. You’ve always had way too high expectations thrown on you. I think it’s okay if you let yourself just- just enjoy this second chance for what it is, rather than expect something out of it- or expect anything from yourself because of it,” Martin rested his cheek against Jon’s head, “And call me biased, but I also just like that I get to spend time with you again when we’re not running for our lives.”

Jon smiled a little, “Yes, that has been nice.”

A beat of silence followed, and Jon was starting to think that that was the end of it, when Martin continued in a hushed voice, as though he didn’t dare speak the words too loud, “Do you think they made it out? The girls?”

Jon mulled over those words for a moment, and a small huff pushed from his nose, “Yes, if they had anything to say about it. They were a stubborn lot.”

“Yeah.” He could hear the smile in Martin’s voice, “Yeah, they were.”

Chapter Text

“I’m just saying, we could totally sneak in a TV and set it up behind the stacks if we really wanted to!”

“Martin, where do you suppose we’re going to get a TV from? Do you have a secret reserve of capital you’re not telling me about?” Jon asked dubiously as he threw the blankets of the cot back before scooting himself onto the shoddy mattress.

Martin snorted as he pulled his pyjama shirt down over his head, “I wish. I’m just bored, Jon. At least when the world was ending, we had some kind of external stimulant to keep us occupied all the time.”

It was Jon's turn to snort a laugh, pulling his legs up onto the cot to sit cross-legged as he watched Martin don his bed clothes, “Are you saying the company of your loving boyfriend isn’t enough for you anymore? What happened to Scotland being the best thing that ever happened to you?” he asked in a mock-Martin voice, “We didn’t have a TV there.”

Martin rolled his eyes as he padded over to Jon, leaning over the cot to press a nosy kiss to his cheek, “What I’m saying is that I can only listen to you recite David Attenborough documentaries at me so many times. I’d actually like to watch one for myself sometime.”

Jon hummed noncommittally, stealing a chased kiss before Martin leaned away again, “I’m just trying to provide some quality entertainment in this trying time. If you can figure out a way to get a television set in here at the low, low price of a ‘good day’ and a smile, I’ll be fully on board.”

Martin chuckled as he bent down to rifle through the duffle bag Tim had gifted them for some pants to change into, “I’m gonna hold you to tha-”

A distant crash within the Archives cut Martin off, and they both froze in place. The silence that followed was deafening. The sound of Martin’s heartbeat was almost too loud in his ears as he strained to listen, holding his breath as a deep dread settled into the pit of his stomach like molasses.

It was so quiet.

There were no loud footfalls that followed. No subsequent crashes echoing from within the Archives. No lilt of a barely-human voice, coaxing them into the darkness. Nothing. And that was almost more concerning than any of the former.

They stole a glance at each other, and Martin could see the panic and fear flitter behind Jon’s eyes. A surge of protectiveness welled up inside him - whatever was out there, it wasn’t getting them tonight.

Martin straightened up, slowly, and motioned for Jon to stay put as he inched to the door. There was a flash of alarm across Jon’s face at this as he hissed a whispered “Martin..!”, but he gave Jon a resolute shake of his head. Stay here, he mouthed, as his hand fell to the cold metal of the door knob.

A brief, cursory glance around him revealed nothing within arm’s reach he could use as a weapon. He’d just have to hope that his height and build would be enough of a physical advantage to body whatever was behind that door. Images of white, writhing worms and a mop of black hair and a ratty, torn red dress and holes and worms and ambling limbs and so many worms flashed through his mind so quickly and so abruptly that it almost made his knees give out. It can’t be, it’s too soon. He rid his mind of the memory with a sharp shake of his head as quickly as it came.

He steeled himself with a shaky breath and twisted the door handle, just as a voice pierced the silence-

“Jon? Martin?”

Martin froze, but for a whole different reason this time, and his eyes went wide.

“Sasha?!” he called back before he could even think twice about it, and threw the door open to look. Low and behold, there was Sasha, staring back at him from the other end of the corridor. Even in the oppressive darkness of the lightless building, he could see her crumpled posture, one hand pressed tight to her opposite shoulder. She looked hurt. It felt achingly familiar.

There was a creak from the cot behind him, and suddenly Jon was at his side in the doorway.

“Sasha? What are you-” Jon began to ask, but fell silent as his eyes landed on her. Martin stepped into the hallway to meet her half way, his arms held towards her in an offering of support as he hurried to her side. She conceded without much convincing, allowing Martin to take some of her body weight as he led her back to their space in document storage.

“Michael,” Jon’s voice was low, the name not spoken as a question. His eyes didn’t seem to leave Sasha’s shoulder as Martin ushered her over to the cot. She nodded, wincing as the movement put some strain on her shoulder.

“Yeah. I’m- I’m okay, though. It just- it just hurts,” she moved her hand from her shoulder, better revealing the dark patch that had soaked through her jacket around a nasty looking puncture wound.

“Yeah, I’m bloody sure it hurts, Sasha,” Martin’s voice cracked as it pitched higher, his hands hovering uselessly in the air in front of him.

“Why didn’t you tell us you’d seen Michael?” Jon asked, a harsher tone slipping into his voice. If Sasha noticed, she didn’t show it.

“I- I don’t know, I didn’t think it was relevant? I figured you would have mentioned something if he was worth keeping an eye out for.”

“This…” Jon breathed, raking his fingers back through his hair as he began to pace the room, “This is quite bad.”

His pacing was brought to an abrupt end as he stopped and swivelled on his heels to face Sasha, “Do you have your phone? We need to call the others.”

The rest of the archives team arrived at the Institute in record time. Being only the proceeding Monday since Other Martin’s decided time away from his flat, he was still staying with Tim, and the two barreled into the Archives practically tripping over each other, followed shortly thereafter by a winded and ruffled-looking Jon.

The fussing started pretty much immediately, the three newcomers to the situation a flurry of questions and nerves as they were given a brief rundown of what had happened while Martin finished tending to Sasha’s shoulder.

When Sasha said she wanted to make her statement now, while it was still fresh in her mind, Tim didn’t shy from voicing his opinion that he thought that was a stupid idea and she should be resting right now. But she insisted. She needed to, it was important. Tim was not happy about it.

“Make me a coffee?” she asked him softly, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. He stared at her for a long time before his expression softened, and he nodded, if begrudgingly.

The four of them - Sasha, Martin, and both Jons - moved into Jon’s office to set themselves up with the recorder, and Sasha began her statement.

By the time the Prentiss incident was in full force, Jon had become intimately familiar with the details of Sasha’s statement regarding her encounter with the Entity known as Michael. Word for word, things seemed to be matching up, until she began recounting the conversation she had with Michael after she’d left work. That day. A small detail, but Jon knew the Sasha of his timeline had encountered Michael over the course of a few days, at the very least. This was different. It didn’t sit right.

“... It sat there, clearly waiting for me to ask another question – so I did. I asked it what it wanted, and was told that it wanted to help,” Sasha continued.

“Help? With… what?” Other Jon asked, hesitantly.

“That’s what I said. Did it want to stop Jane Prentiss? It laughed that weird laugh again and told me that I had no idea what was really going on. It didn’t sound like it had any intention of telling me, though, it just seemed like it was amused by my attempts to understand. Then it said it didn’t care if I or my companions lived or died, but that ‘the flesh-hive was always rash’. It said it wanted to be friends. When it said this it put its hand in mine, and it may have looked like a human hand, but it was heavy. It felt like a… wet leather bag full of heavy stones. Sharp stones.

“I pulled my hand away quickly and got up to leave. By this point I was just about sick of this weird thing that looked like a person but was not a person and talked in riddles. It made no move to stop me as I headed towards the door. As I was about to exit, though, it called after me, and said that ‘our silly Archivist made a mistake keeping Martin away from her’.”

Jon’s eyes snapped up to meet Sasha’s then, his whole body going rigid.

“What did you just say?”

“Yeah,” Sasha breathed, swallowing dryly, “It knew we kept Martin from going home last week, to avoid Prentiss.”

Jon felt as though the floor had been ripped out from under him, and he all but staggered from his place against the door to the couch in the corner. Martin seemed to notice his unease almost immediately and trailed close behind, helping Jon settle into the cushions before taking a seat beside him.

Michael knew. Somehow, Michael knew. What this meant, Jon couldn’t even begin to understand.

What else did Michael know? How much did the other Avatars know? How involved were they all with Jonah’s machinations from the very beginning?

Question after question billowed through Jon’s mind like a tornado, so rapid and tumultuous he couldn’t know which ones were the right ones to latch on to. After a long, long moment of everyone's eyes in the room on him, waiting for… something, he simply nodded for Sasha to continue.

Other Jon eyed him cautiously, concern ghosting at the edges of his expression before he turned his attention back to Sasha, clearing his throat.

“That’s… unsettling. Please, go on.”

Sasha lingered on him for a moment, before she continued, “It really was. It really unnerved me, and I stopped dead in the doorway. I asked what it meant by that, but it just laughed that same laugh again, and said if I was interested in saving your lives it would be waiting at Hanwell Cemetery, and I should meet it tonight. So I did. The sun was starting to go down when I got there…”

“... Eventually I found my way back to the Institute, where I woke up Jon and Martin and, well, here we are.”

“Yes, I uh. Suppose we are,” Other Jon said, stiltedly, before clearing his throat, “Thank you, Sasha. Statement ends.”

He clicked off the recorder.

There was a heavy silence that fell over the room as the weight of the statement settled over them. Jon was the first to break it, his voice rough as he spoke, “This isn't right.”

Questioning looks from Sasha and Other Jon prompted him to continue, “Sasha’s encounter with Michael didn’t happen for another month from now when we went through this, and it was over the course of a few days that she met with him before she gave her statement.”

“So- so maybe things are just happening differently this time,” Martin suggested, his hand resting between Jon’s shoulder blades in an offer of comfort. Jon was glad for it.

“Maybe,” Jon echoed, hands clasped firmly in front of his mouth thoughtfully, “But it doesn’t sit right with me. Michael not only knew that we kept Martin from going back to his flat this past week, but it seemed to know that Prentiss was our reasoning behind it.”

“Could it have been listening?” Sasha asked. She shifted uncomfortably.

“It’s possible,” Martin answered tentatively, “Has anyone noticed any yellow doors popping up around the Institute?”

The blank looks from Other Jon and Sasha were enough of an answer.

“Michael is an avatar of the Spiral,” Jon explained, moving his hands to rub his thumb anxiously against his opposite palm, “Also known as ‘The Distortion’, or ‘The Door That Shouldn’t Have Been There’. Yellow doors are its signature marker. They appear in places unbound by physics, and lead to a series of impossibly twisting corridors where time and space don’t make sense. I wouldn’t recommend stepping into one, if you chance an encounter.”

“It’s not pleasant,” Martin added, dryly.

“So what do we do about this ‘Michael’, then?” Other Jon asked, leaning over his desk, “Is what it says about wanting to be our ‘friend’ true? Do we trust it?”

It took Jon a moment of pause to be able to honestly answer that question. 

“Michael is…” he began, tentatively, “He’s a wild card. He only steps in when it will make things ‘interesting’, so to speak. There had been times when the Distortion saved my life, and others when it had been more than happy to sit back and watch as someone else tried to take it.”

Martin’s expression pinched at hearing this and smoothed his hand from Jon’s back to his shoulder where he gave it a gentle squeeze. Jon gave him a tired smile.

“So overall consensus - kind of, but not really,” Martin said helpfully.

“How illuminating,” Other Jon muttered as he pushed his glasses up to rub the space between his eyes. Ignoring him, Sasha asked, “Are there any other… things? Entities? We should be aware of?”

Jon breathed out slowly as he considered this.

“No,” he eventually decided. “A pair of delivery men - Breekon and Hope - will likely make themselves known at some point, though they aren’t an immediate threat. Prentiss is going to be the most pressing issue, if what Michael said is anything to go by.”

“So what do we do?”

Jon stood, his shoulders set with a renewed determination. 

“We get more fire extinguishers.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“I’ll be fine, Jon,” Martin assured him with a smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s been years, I think I can handle a quick stop at my old flat.”

Jon frowned. “Yes, maybe. But I know better than anyone how much the Prentiss situation still bothers you. Which is completely reasonable, by the way,” he added before Martin could voice an argument. “It still bothers me, too. Especially now.”

Any defiance Martin had seemed to die on his lips, and he let out a soft, deflating sigh. A part of Jon did feel bad for pushing the point, but that was the thing; he did know. As much as Martin wanted to come across as “strong” or “brave” by any arbitrary definitions of those words, those two weeks he spent trapped in his flat really left their mark, and that was so completely understandable. Jon had enough experience with trauma to know that, while time did heal most wounds, they still scarred over, leaving pits and distressed skin that pulled and ached and burned even years after they’d healed. So why prod and poke when you could simply leave them be?

But it wasn’t so simple for Martin, he knew that. When they had all come to the agreement that enough time had elapsed that they should check back in on Other Martin’s flat, Martin had practically jumped at the opportunity once Jon had offered his own accompaniment on the venture. On the surface, his eagerness to help shone through the brightest, though Jon knew it went deeper than that; the unspoken promise that they wouldn’t stray far from each other set behind his smile.

And Jon understood. He truly did, and he was more than happy to oblige. Martin was his rock, his reason, and he was his happiest when he was in Martin's bubble. But he still didn’t want that to put him in a situation that could open old wounds as a result.

He squeezed Martin’s hands in his, hoping it would convey even an ounce of his thoughts without needing to put them into words. Martin’s gaze flicked between his before shoulders sagged a little. “I know,” Martin said quietly, “But I wouldn’t feel right not coming. I need to know if anything happened.”

Jon recognised the weight of the word need. The need for answers to questions they never could have gotten back home. The need for closure, in whatever form that might come. The need to know for himself.

Jon nodded.

“Okay… okay. Just- just please let me know if it gets too much, o-or if I can do anything to help. I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“Thanks, love,” Martin said softly, and Jon could hear the smile in his voice this time. He pressed a soft kiss to the side of Martin’s mouth and pulled back just as he heard footsteps approaching.

Martin’s counterpart waved to them both as he exited the assistants’ bullpen, readjusting his satchel bag against his shoulder. 

“Ready to go?” Jon asked him, to which he received a resolute nod.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

And so, off they went into the big, outside world.

No one bothered to pay them much mind as idle chatter carried them along the tube ride to Martin’s old flat. It was a short enough romp across town and really the first time, since Jon and Martin had gotten here, that they’d stepped foot further than the pub into a London that looked just identical enough to the one they’d said goodbye to only a few weeks ago.

It was an odd sensation. Jon had never really been out this way much, so there weren't many sights that rang familiar to him. He’d only ever been to this part of town once, and that had all passed by in a blur as they’d fled the country with a duffle bag in one hand and each other’s clasped tightly in the other. Hardly a time for sight-seeing.

Martin, on the other hand, he could see was taking it all in with a certain awe to his expression. A level of excitement had bubbled up within him as they trekked the streets of his old stomping ground, pointing out an old café here that “hadn’t even opened yet”, and names of shops there that were definitely different to what they were back home. He quizzed and prodded information from his younger self about their familiarly dissimilar surroundings, who seemed more than happy to oblige, and Jon simply watched on in quiet wonderment.

Eventually they found themselves at the front of the flat. An inconspicuous building to anyone else’s eye, though a history marred into its walls for two of the three standing at its steps.

Jon stole a glance beside him. He couldn’t quite name the expression Martin held as he stared up at the old, brick façade. A complicated mix of pensiveness and longing.

“I hope Morwen remembered to water my plants,” Other Martin muttered to himself as he stepped up to let them in. If he noticed the moment of pause Jon and Martin took, he didn’t call attention to it.

A click of the latch, and they were ushered inside, Martin’s hand held firmly in Jon’s.

The lobby was quiet, the scent of cleaner and lavender room fragrance sharp in the air as the three made for the stairs to the second floor.

“Seems clear so far,” Martin pointed out with an air of hesitancy, his voice pitching up towards the end as though framed as a question. Jon hummed in affirmation. 

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Other Martin asked as he paused on the steps ahead of them to glance back.

“Worms,” Martin’s face twisted into a grimace at the mere thought. “Or Prentiss, I suppose. But you can usually smell either before you see them.”

Other Martin’s expression echoed a similar sentiment, and Jon couldn’t help but find that small detail as amusing as it was endearing.

Certainly the situation they found themselves in was a tense one, though with each step they took, the more confident Jon became that the building and - more importantly - Martin’s flat, went untouched by the blighted hand of Jane Prentiss. Because Martin was right; he would never forget that smell. A mix of rot and decay and wet, earthy soil that permeated every crack and soaked into every surface even weeks after their tangle with the Corruption.

Jon just about voiced as much as they reached the second floor, before the abrupt unlocking of a door followed by an exclamation from Other Martin ahead of him doused any remaining optimism like a firehose to a candle. He’d been an idiot to think their luck could have turned around just like that. Foolish and naïve and walking directly into a trap, just like he always did.

Jon took a step to rush forward, when a voice halted him in his tracks.

“Martin! I wasn’t expectin’ to see ye back so soon!”

Ah. Or maybe it was just the paranoia talking again. Though the audible sigh of relief he heard push from Martin’s lungs behind him made him feel a little better about that.

“Bloody hell Morwen- you about scared the life out of me!” Other Martin all but squeaked, his hand pressed firmly to his chest and looking about ready to keel over.

“Oh come now, don’t be so dramatic,” the old woman - Morwen, apparently - chided lightly in what sounded something adjacent to a Welsh accent.

Jon got a good look at her now. She was short with greying, curled hair pulled back with what looked to be some sort of scarf or bandanna. She donned a well-loved floral dress that fell to her ankles, and deep smile lines around her eyes that only added to her kind face. She was in the middle of waving a hand dismissively in front of her as if to banish the heart attack she almost gave Other Martin. “I was just about on my way to tend your plants, but if you’re back from yer holiday I suppose I can leave you to it.”

Other Martin breathed a heavy sigh, some of the tension in his shoulders leaving with it. “Yeah- yeah, I’ve got it from here. Thanks again for taking care of them for me.”

“Oh, it was no trouble, love! I’ll take ye up on returnin’ the favour next time I need a hand.” 

The conversation began its turn to light small talk as Morwen peppered Other Martin with questions about his “holiday”, to which he seemed to be keeping up with. Martin’s ability to talk out of his ass would almost be worrying if it wasn’t so impressive.

Jon took this as an opportunity away from prying eyes to take a step back down the stairs, rejoining with Martin who had stopped just behind him. He reached out and squeezed his hand.

“Alright?” Jon asked in a soft tone, only meant for them.

Martin gave him a small, private smile, squeezing his hand back in assurance. “Yeah, alright. Just a bit jumpy, I guess.”

Jon breathed a small huff. He was sympathetic to that feeling for sure. “Me too. The coast seems to be clear, though. For the most part,” he stole a glance up the stairs to Morwen, still chatting away.

“Thank god,” Martin breathed the words ruggedly with relief, rubbing his eyes beneath his glasses. “Don’t know what I would’ve done if we actually found something.”

“I will admit I hadn’t quite thought that far ahead, either,” Jon said in light humour, which pulled a snort from Martin.

A fond smile tugged at Jon’s lips, and he opened his mouth to speak again, when a voice from above abruptly cut him off.

“And who do we have here?”

Jon cringed, glancing up to see the piercing gaze of a curious, old woman set on them both. Shit.

“Almost didn’t see you, crowdin’ up on the stairs down there! You didn’t mention you’d be havin’ family visit,” she directed the last musings back towards Other Martin. Jon could see his mind working to catch up.

“Oh, uh-” he stammered, forcing that practised smile Jon was all too familiar with, “Yeah! Last minute thing, you know how it goes. They’re staying in town for a few weeks so figured I’d show them the ol’ Casa de Blackwood,” he laughed with rehearsed familiarity, and she joined him.

Before she had a chance to continue her own prodding, Martin stepped forward, holding out his hand with a polite smile, “Lovely to meet you. I’m Martin’s brother, Neil. This is my partner, um- Chester.”

It took everything within Jon to not outwardly gape at the name. He forced a smile. “Pleasure.”

“Oh how lovely!” she clapped Martin’s hand in hers, a twinkle in her eyes as she regarded them, “Always been a supporter of folks with your lifestyle, even in my younger years when not many people understood it. My nephew’s gay, you know- I should introduce you-”

“Alright!” Other Martin cut her off as he fumbled his keys while Jon sputtered indignantly, at a loss for words while Martin did his best not to laugh. “We should be going. Lovely seeing you, Gran!” he called cheerfully. The lock finally clicked and he practically dragged the two of them into the flat, the visage of Morwen disappearing behind the closing door with a wave of blissful ignorance.

There was a beat of silence once the quiet of the flat filtered in, before Jon turned to Martin.

“Chester? Really?” Jon hissed under his breath.

“Wh- I’m sorry! Once it was in my head I literally couldn’t think of anything else!”

“Christ,” he muttered, straightening his shirt if only to give him something to do with his hands. “Is that what we’re going with, then? I don’t even look like a Chester.”

“You’ll probably never even see her again anyway, you’ll be fine,” Martin chided amusedly.

“You look more like a Chester than I do,” Jon continued to grumble to himself with no real heat behind it, and Martin just laughed and rolled his eyes.

It had taken some time for Martin to really clock into Jon’s particular sense of humour, which wasn’t necessarily surprising to him. To a stranger, the dry remarks and sarcastic comments mostly just made him seem more like an arse than he normally was, so he was more inclined to tone it down in unfamiliar company (as hard as that might be to believe).

Martin had caught on, though. And though tentative at first, he’d started to reciprocate the dry humour and absurd disagreements over nothing in particular that would always end in laughter. It was harmless. Harmless, and fun, and felt like theirs.

A loud cough brought them both back from their couple’s quarrel to see Other Martin switching on some lights, looking at them both with an expression Jon couldn’t quite place.

“Um- So, no sign of worms. Seems all clear?”

Martin exhaled softly, just now really taking in their surroundings as well. “Right. No worms,” he echoed.

Jon cleared his throat a little, stepping further into the small flat. “Why don’t you both take a seat and I’ll make us some tea?”

Other Martin looked at him then, a sense of wonderment and confusion fighting for dominance on his face as though the simple gesture could not compute in his brain. Jon didn’t necessarily blame him for that, though it didn’t do much for that lingering bead of guilt that refused to fully give way.

His mouth opened and closed a few times before any actual words came out, “Wh-? Oh- N-no, please, you don’t have to do that! I can-”

“I want to,” Jon said, sure of himself. He gave him a small smile, “Sit. Please.”

He could feel their eyes on him as he turned and made for the kitchen.

Martin watched as his younger self’s eyes trailed after Jon as he left the room. It was a funny thing, like looking into one of those funhouse mirrors, but instead of warping your reflection, it let you look at yourself from a different time. The apprehension and uncertainty that was clear on the other’s face was something Martin didn’t experience with Jon, not anymore, though he certainly remembered the feeling.

The first time Jon had sat with him for lunch, only a few days after he’d moved into document storage after those two weeks of his own personal worm-drenched hell, had almost made his brain short circuit. There was no fanfare, no lead up, not even a question. Jon had simply come into the lunch room, sat at the table with him, and began eating his lunch as though they’d done it that way a thousand times before. He’d asked how he was settling in and nodded to Martin’s stuttered reply, and had started on talking about the statements he’d been looking into. Martin had sat in bewildered silence for the majority of it, scared out of his mind that he would say the wrong thing and ruin the tenuous comradery Jon had apparently decided they now shared. But that never happened, and Jon had come back the next day, too. And the day after that. And, well… you get the idea.

He was certain his face had looked exactly as Other Martin’s did in those moments.

“He’s gotten pretty good at it,” Martin commented, breaking the silence. He settled against the arm of the couch. “Making tea, I mean.”

His younger self looked at him then, his expression cooling to something more of tentative curiosity. “Yeah? I didn’t even know he knew how.”

“I know, took me by surprise, too,” Martin laughed a little, the fondness he felt seeping through. “He still thinks it’s not as good as mine, but I think he does just fine.”

Other Martin simply hummed, his eyes trailing back to the direction of the kitchen. Martin could guess where his thoughts were drifting, and honestly couldn't blame him for it. He watched as his expression did something complicated, dancing between pensive and wistful, before Martin spoke up.

“You okay?” he asked, softly. The question not intended to leave this room.

A soft sigh pushed from Other Martin’s nose before he collapsed into the nearest armchair with a soft thump. He didn’t quite meet Martin’s eye as he leant forward, his elbows against his knees.

“I don’t know? I just- I just don’t get it, I guess,” he said, matching his tone.

Martin tilted his head a little in question.

“I don’t get it,” he reiterated, a note of frustration making its way into his voice as he gesticulated widely with his hands, “You’ve- I’ve watched you both for weeks and I still don’t- I- I never would have even begun to imagine my stupid crush on Jon could’ve gone anywhere. Because that’s all it is! A stupid, dumb crush on a man that absolutely hates me. And- and I was fine with that? Because it meant there were no expectations there. And now- now that I know, I don’t- I don’t understand how I could possibly have gotten from here to-” he motioned at Martin uselessly, “to there.”

Martin’s brow pinched sympathetically, latching on to one part of his impassioned outpouring in particular, “He doesn’t hate you.”

Other Martin practically scoffed at the sentiment, and he couldn’t say he didn’t understand why.

Martin held up his hands placatingly as he continued, “I’m serious! He’s- Jon explained it to me once. He’s not good at this kind of thing? People, I mean. New people. And- I mean, we didn’t exactly make the best first impression, and he was already stressed about the promotion he was sure he was unqualified for, and he didn't know Elias had transferred us from the library when he’d only really requested transfers for Sasha and Tim and-” he took a breath.

“Look,” he tried again, noting the flat expression he was receiving. “I know it’s hard to believe. I also thought he hated me for a long time. And- yeah, his explanation- it’s not an excuse, and he said as much when we talked about it. But he didn’t. And he doesn’t. My Jon just needed some time to work himself out, and, well- Jon’s hoping he can talk a bit of sense into yours, too.”

Other Martin appeared to deflate a little as the words seemed to settle in somewhere amongst all the doubt and uncertainty.

“I guess he has been a bit less… prickly, lately,” he noted, a careful optimism in his tone.

A soft smile tugged at Martin’s lips. That was a start.

“It took a lot of work,” Martin said, his words sure. “And a lot of time, for us to get here. I really hope your path forward isn’t as… hectic, as ours turned out to be. But he is worth everything I’ve been through. I can promise that much.”

As if on cue, soft foot falls sounded behind him before a mug was pressed gently into his hands. He looked up and met Jon’s smile with his own, uttering a soft thanks as Jon handed off the second mug and sat heavily on the couch beside him with the third.

“I hope it’s alright. I just assumed you both took it the same way,” Jon spoke into his mug, his breath gently disturbing the coiling steam in front of his face.

A soft, affirming hum sounded from the other chair as Other Martin took a sip, his eyes drifting closed with the motion. Martin could almost see the warmth wash over him, like a soft blanket on a chilled, winter’s night.

“Safe assumption, I think,” Martin responded lightly.

“No sign of worms in the kitchen either, I should note. I think it should be safe for you to stay here again, if you’d like.”

“That’s- that’s good,” Other Martin responded softly with a small nod. “Staying with Tim and Sasha has been fun, but… I do miss my bed.”

A faint smile pulled at Jon’s lips as he returned the nod with his own. Jon opened his mouth to speak again, just as the Martin across from him inhaled slowly, his eyes searching in the soft ripples of his tea; something Martin often did when he was considering his next words carefully as he puzzled them together in his head. And Martin watched Jon close his mouth and wait; taking the same care he so often would with him, with a version of himself that wasn’t so used to being shown that level of kindness and patience and softness. He didn’t think it would be possible to love that man anymore than he already did, but Jon continuously proved him wrong.

“Thank you,” Other Martin said eventually, his voice carefully level, “For- for coming with me. And for caring about all this. What happened to you with- with Prentiss, it- it sounded awful,” his eyes flicked up to meet Martin’s, who gave him a faint, weary smile.

“It wasn’t fun,” Martin responded, trying to keep his tone light. He didn’t know if he really succeeded, though.

“And it won’t happen again,” Jon urged, his hand settling against Martin’s knee and giving it a reassuring squeeze, though his words were directed towards both of them, “To anyone. I’ll- we’ll make sure of it.”

A small breath left Other Martin’s nose as a faint smile played on his lips. “So it seems,” he said, not unkindly.

The conversation petered out, then, seeming to have no room left to grow beyond the words that had already been spoken. The worms had been a staple topic of conversation for what felt like the entire time they’d occupied their space amongst the Archives of this universe. To be expected, one would suppose. It was such a profoundly transformative experience they had both somehow lived to see the other side of, leaving the people they once were behind in the writhing juncture between “then” and “now”. They just wanted the people around them to understand the significance of it all, and it seemed as though the sentiment was getting through, for better or for worse. Something neither of them were particularly used to, outside of their own bubble made for two.

“The tea is lovely, by the way,” Other Martin added, a lightness to his tone that hadn’t been there before.

Jon seemed a little surprised by the remark, and his lips tugged into a soft smile.

“Thank you. I did learn from the best.”

Any leftover tension seemed to ease, then, as the conversation carried on to simpler matters. And Martin - to his surprise - sort of took a backseat as Jon and his counterpart made idle chatter about everything and nothing, like helping Other Martin move his things back from Tim’s, and their lazy plans for the weekend. 

It was… nice. An unheard of opportunity to get to watch another you at such a vulnerable time in your life, open up in a way you never could yourself. Unguarded, to a degree, in company you could have only yearned for. It made something light and soft settle in his chest.

Healing maybe wasn't quite the right word for it, not yet. But it was pretty damn close.

Chapter Text

It was only a few days later when they first started noticing the worms at the Institute - easily overlooked as just regular bug larvae as they lazily writhed on the front steps of the Institute, had the archival staff not been keeping a sharp yet wary eye out.

It was Other Martin who made the unfortunate, damming discovery and had rushed into the Archives with a quake in his voice. It wasn’t long before Jon and Martin confirmed what none of them wanted to hear, and the reality of what was slowly creeping around the corner solidified in the backs of their minds.

Time seemed to slug forward like molasses after that, yet Jon couldn’t help but feel like the hours were slipping through his fingers like sand in an hourglass at the same time. It was hard to focus on any one thing that might be important when you didn’t even know what you were supposed to be looking for. The same signs as last time? Discrepancies between events? Something different entirely? It was all so much to keep up with, yet Jon still felt like he still wasn’t doing enough. He should have all the information he needed - he’d done this before. And even still, their research cropped up nothing new, and he was left twiddling his thumbs all over again.

It made his skin crawl, and he couldn’t decide if it was the restlessness getting to him again, or the ever growing presence of the slimy, silver worms seeping into the building as the days dragged by.

The Web artefacts showed up before long, dumped unceremoniously in the middle of the Archives by the ever punctual Breekon and Hope.

A long and heated discussion about what should be done with the artefacts followed the departure of the two delivery men, and the eventual consensus was for the table to be moved into Artefact Storage until such time as they could figure out how to safely dispose of it, and the web-engraved lighter to remain in Other Jon’s possession.

It took every ounce of self control within Jon not to take an axe straight to the heart of that table’s wretched, curling wood a second time. He would just have to find another way to destroy the bound creature before it had the chance to get out of hand. Add it to the to-do list, he supposed.

He was insistent on planning after that. Too many uncontrollable elements were worming (hah) their way into Jon’s mind to sit easy with him and he needed a plan. Prentiss could attack any day now if their previous luck had anything to say about it, and he’d sooner drive himself mad than be caught without some semblance of a strategy in the face of their looming danger.

“Elias eventually set off the fire suppression systems, but not until the worms had done enough damage already,” Jon was explaining as he paced the small space of the breakroom, “He needed to make sure I was properly marked by the Corruption before Prentiss was stopped.”

“So we prioritise setting it off ourselves,” Sasha said, gesturing vaguely in its direction for emphasis, “Once we set it off, they should be as good as toast.”

“We should still try to hit the fire alarm though, right? Before the CO2 goes off? Make sure everyone else can evacuate before it gets too bad,” Other Martin offered up.

Jon nodded, halting his steps and folding his arms over his chest, “I tend to agree. Extended inhalation of CO2 is not recommended at the best of times, and it will ensure that everyone has a chance to get out before the worms have the potential to grow too out of hand.”

“You don’t think the big bossman will catch on if we look like we know what we’re doing?” Tim asked, leaning back on two precariously balanced chair legs.

“He’s already aware something’s going on down here. I don’t think it’ll make much of a difference at that point,” Sasha pointed out. A few heads bobbed around the table in agreement.

“There’s no reason we couldn’t have started planning for a worst case scenario when it comes to the worms of our own accord,” Other Jon said, “They are getting progressively worse, and I did bother Elias into installing the new fire suppression system for a reason.”

“We just need to make sure we don’t get caught up with the ECDC once Prentiss is dead,” Martin said, gesturing between himself and Jon, “Not sure how we’re supposed to explain there being two people found in the Archives who look suspiciously a whole lot like two other people who already work here.”

“If everything goes to plan, we should be able to make it into the tunnels before the ECDC even shows up,” Jon suggested, “We can just lay low until they’ve cleared the building after that. Maybe find another way out.” 

“Yeah, if everything goes to plan,” Martin echoed somewhat grimly. His eyes were unfocused on a spot on the table in front of him, and to anyone else, it probably came across as more detached or overly cynical than anything. But the way his hands were clasped and white-knuckled in front of him, the tightness to his expression, his withdrawn posture; it told Jon everything he needed to know.

Martin was scared. Of course he was scared.

The pang of guilt that washed over Jon didn't feel entirely undeserved. He knew he had a habit of blaming himself for the misfortunes of those around him; Martin made a point to correct those misguided thoughts whenever they became so big he could do nothing else but let the words stumble off his tongue in a tidal wave of remorse.

But well… was he ever really wrong?

Sure, his intentions were good. But he was still the reason Martin was here. Still the reason for his nightmares. Still the reason they were reliving this hell all over again.

“Alright, well,” Jon heard Tim say distantly as he pushed his chair back from the lunch table, stretching his arms over his head. “No use fretting over it too much, right? I plan to get pretty a-fucked up tonight, so we can lament on it more over drinks if any of you queers care to join-”

Jon’s attention was brought back to the current moment at the sudden falter in Tim’s sentence. Tim had paused mid-stand, one hand rested against the surface of the table as he peered off at the far wall with a confused look, “... me. Do you guys smell that?”

Jon blinked, a sudden unease building in the pit of his stomach as everyone appeared to perk up and strain their senses to sniff out whatever it was that Tim had noticed.

It took only a moment for the soured smell of mould and decay to permeate the intense silence of the breakroom.

Before anyone could make a move to find its source, Martin let out a panicked shriek as he launched from his chair, reeling back from something on the floor, and it was enough to throw everyone else into motion.

Chairs knocked over as everyone lept to their feet, Jon and Sasha pulling Martin back as the other three took to driving the heels of their shoes into the soft, writhing bodies that were now starting to litter the breakroom floor in a spotty carpet of silver.

A noise of disgust came from Other Jon’s direction as his eyes landed on where they were apparently seeping through - a small crack in the plaster where the wall met the floor, hidden out of sight just beside the pantry. Their soft bodies thrashed and twitched over each other in slow, disgusting dribble as they squeezed their way through the small gap in the foundation.

As soon as his eyes had landed on the sight, he palmed one of the many fire extinguishers the team had littered around the Archives for just this purpose, and with a swift motion, pulled the pin and doused them in a healthy coating of CO2. 

A breath of relief suffused over the group as the worms appeared to slowly stop their ascent, and Jon quickly turned his attention back to Martin, his hands fluttering over him with an anxious worry, “Are you alright? Are you hurt? They didn’t get you, did they?”

Martin’s eyes flicked to meet his, the panic still clear in his eyes as he drew in ragged, uneven breaths, “I don’t- I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Jon nodded. “Okay. Okay, you’re okay, just breathe,” he soothed, moving his hands to cup either side of Martin’s face as he made exaggerated inhales and exhales in hopes it would help ground him even a little bit.

His focus was so honed in on Martin that he didn’t notice the second surge of worms that began to slowly writhe over the melted bodies of their fallen brethren through the gap in the wall.

He also didn’t notice when the fire extinguisher his younger self wielded puttered out of fuel.

He only snapped back to it when he heard metal hit plaster, and his head whipped around just in time to see the butt of the fire extinguisher make contact with the mound of worms squirming to free themselves from the crack in the wall.

He barely had enough time to shout “No-!” before the lower structure of the wall collapsed with the contact.

There was a beat of silence where no one dared to breathe, every eye in the room trained on the newly gaping hole in the wall.

And then they heard it.

The wet squirming pierced through the silence with jarring speed as a small avalanche of silver, thrashing bodies spewed out in a roiling mass into the breakroom.

In what felt like barely a second to react, they lurched and smattered across the floor towards the stunlocked Archives crew at an alarming speed.

“Oh, fuck-!” Tim choked as Sasha yelled, “RUN!” and she grabbed ahold of Jon and Martin’s hands and yanked.

And then they were running.

They barrelled through the door one after the other, stumbling and colliding with each other as they raced to put space between themselves and the overridden breakroom.

There didn’t seem to be much of a point though, as more awful, slimy bodies were beginning to bleed up through the floorboards and cracks in the walls that they didn’t remember being there before.

They were everywhere. 

“Fire extinguishers, NOW!” Jon cried out, sending the heel of his shoe into the oncoming slew of worms and carving a path to the hoard of extinguishers kept by the cabinets in the assistants’ bullpen.

Hands grasped desperately for defences as the group armed themselves, and plumes of smoke coated the small, wriggling things.

“We have to go!” Martin choked out, edging backwards as he emptied his canister into the oncoming hoard.

“Where’s Prentiss?!” Other Jon’s voice demanded over the incessant, wet squirming quickly filling the room when another, crooning voice broke through the sound.

“Do you hear their song?”

Jon felt his stomach drop. His eyes darted frantically to the source, and there she was. Pitted, greyed skin juxtaposed by a red dress, tattered beyond repair and leaving little up to the imagination. She shambled towards them; slowly, in no rush for her quarry as her sunken eyes, visible only barely through her long, matted black hair, trained on her prey.

“Archivist,” she hissed, an awful, pockmarked hand raising to point directly at her target, though it wasn’t Jon as he had half expected.

His counterpart’s eyes were blown wide as he stared down the barrel of that bony, slick finger, as though it had laid out his future bare for him to witness.

They had to move.

Jon tossed his extinguisher to the floor and grabbed a hold of Martin’s hand.

“Get to the boiler room!” he shouted to the other three, backing himself, Martin and Sasha towards the stairs, “That’s where the release for the fire suppression system is, we’ll go hit the alarm!”

Tim’s attention seemed to be the only one he managed to pull, and he could do nothing but watch as Other Martin’s hand reached out desperately for Other Jon as they both stared their potential deaths in the eye.

A single, resolute nod from Tim was all he got before another suffocating blast of CO2 was unleashed on the barrage of worms, cloaking Prentiss herself until she was reduced to an echoing, rasping laugh in the fog.

And they ran.

They pelted for the stairs leading to the main floor of the Institute, Sasha unloading the canister in her grasp to clear a path in front of them.

“Should we really just leave them with her?!” she asked, voice high with panic.

“We don’t have a choice,” Jon responded, regretfully, “We can’t do anything against her unless they hit the suppression system. At the very least, we can help draw some of them away.”

He saw her eyes squeeze shut briefly, the conflict playing out on her face mirroring the very same deep within Jon’s chest, before she gave a nod and pressed forward with renewed haste.

Before long, they rounded the corner to the base of the stairwell.

“There!” Martin shouted, pointing to the red fire switch bolted to the wall.

The extinguisher in Sasha’s hands puttered to a stop in her attempts to keep the oncoming wave of worms from them, and she cursed and tossed it into the sea of writhing bodies.

“Go!” she called as she turned to run, just as Jon pulled the switch.

The fire alarm blared to life, the droning of the siren only doing so much to drown out the unabating squelching coming up behind them.

Jon heard Sasha shriek before she stumbled back, colliding with him and Martin and catching them on the wall.

He didn’t have much time to register what was going on before the small, writhing bodies began launching up at them. Wet slaps sounded against the wall and floor at their feet as the three scrambled backwards, before a sharp, searing, and all too familiar pain surged up Jon’s leg. 

A string of curses left his mouth as he turned and shoved Martin and Sasha toward the stairs, “Upstairs, now!”

The three surged up the stairwell, and it took everything within Jon to block out the pain in order to make it. He stumbled, and in his blind panic, reached out desperately for something - anything - to hold on to, when a soft warmth encompassed his hand and tugged him forward.

Jon’s shoulder hit the opposite wall as they expelled from the top of the stairs, desperately heaving oxygen into his lungs as the heat welled in his leg.

“Fuck,” he croaked, only just now seeing the damage.

Sure enough, a hole had been bored through his pant leg and a fat, bulbous shape had taken up residence in its space. It spasmed against his flesh and muscle and he inhaled sharply as his vision whited at the pain.

He felt gentle hands against him and muted voices calling his name before his vision clarified enough to make out Martin’s face coming into view, desperate and worried.

“Hey- hey, are you with me? Jon?”

He gave a meek nod in reply, silently cursing whatever machinations of the universe decided to bestow his already bad leg with yet another worm-related injury.

Somewhere over Martin’s shoulder, he heard Sasha’s voice say, “We have to keep moving!” her usual, steady tone broken up with panic and fear.

Jon took a deep, steadying breath. Come on, Sims. Move now, pain later.

He pushed off the wall and braced himself against Martin’s form as strong arms wrapped around him. 

“Jon? Are you-”

“I’ll be fine,” he forced from his lungs, keeping his voice as level as he could manage, “We need to go.”

There was a beat before Martin nodded, “Okay. Okay- Hold on to me, come on.”

No arguments there.

Jon held on as though his life depended on it (which, frankly, it kind of did) as he and Martin pressed on after Sasha. Where exactly they were going, he could hardly begin to comprehend as all of his focus was currently going into not slowing them down. His leg screamed at him to stop, the ache of it bone deep as the worm slowly and deliberately burrowed down through each layer of flesh and tendon and muscle until it was satisfied with the home it had made for itself. Which didn’t really feel like ever, if he was being completely honest.

The muffled world around him sharpened as a yelp followed by a metal crash sliced through the inky black threatening to blot out his vision. The arms wrapped securely around him tightened their hold as another form knocked into them, and a panicked “shit” that he quickly discerned to be Sasha sounded just by his ear.

“Seriously?!” Martin all but whined at his other side, his voice cracking as it pitched higher, “How did they get into the vents?!”

Jon now noted the dislodged vent grate that lay haphazardly in front of them, utterly teaming with small, silver things. Where some had been squashed with the impact (small mercies), the majority of the dense hoard continued to clamour over the metal beams towards the warmest bodies in the vicinity. Which, unfortunately, just so happened to be them.

He could also see now that they had been trying to make for the main exit to the Institute. Never a bad thing to hope, he supposed.

“Wish I knew! Come on, this way!” Sasha exclaimed breathlessly as she tugged at Martin’s sleeve and took a hard right from where they’d stopped. The simple action pulled Martin into motion, and they were on the move once again, though now - unfortunately - headed deeper into the building.

They ran for what could have been mere seconds, or just as many minutes. It was hard to tell when corridor after same corridor went by while you were trying your best not to pass out.

Distantly, Jon heard Martin say something about “we’re almost there, just hang on”, though he couldn’t have been sure, as in that moment, a crackling thrum tickled at the recesses of his mind. So subtle that he was almost ready to write it off as simple delirium setting in, but it kept getting louder, and louder, until the static that filled his ears was so overwhelming and so concentrated in one spot in his periphery that he had to look.

And he made eye contact with Elias Bouchard.

The world seemed to move in slow motion, then. Unable to look away as he was hauled down a corridor past the only thing that could possibly be more dangerous than the things they were currently running from.

He didn’t think the others had noticed. And he thinks Elias knew that, too.

His hollow, grey eyes followed them as they passed the inconspicuous office where he stood, and that all-knowing, venomous smile crawled onto his face like a revolting, hungry spider.

“How interesting,”  the words only barely uttered above a whisper, though to Jon’s ears, they were heard loud and clear.

And just as fast as he came, he was gone. Jon was pulled forward, the blare of the fire alarm and the thrum of his own heart in his ears overtaking his senses once again.

He barely had a chance to process the twisting panic that was making his chest feel impossibly tight before they rounded another corner and Sasha shouldered her way through the door ahead of them.

“Come on, get in!” she said hurriedly as she waved them inside. The door shut behind them with a heavy clunk.

Heavy breaths filled the silence of the room, the distant blaring of sirens barely able to penetrate the thick barrier of wood that lay between them and the rest of the Institute.

Jon leant heavily against Martin, his lungs screaming for more oxygen than he could give and his limbs feeling like jelly. A moment of rest. Thank god.

His eyes fluttered shut for just a moment, before he took a second to take in their surroundings and finally figure out where the hell they were.

A single, hanging bulb hummed somewhere distantly in the room, casting a dull rimlight over the many amorphous shapes and objects that littered the surprisingly substantial space.

There were only a few places in the Institute like it, and a worrying thought crossed Jon’s mind.

He glanced up then, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light, and read the plaque on the door he’d had a terrible feeling he would find.

Artefact Storage.

Chapter Text

Martin, unfortunately, knew exactly where they'd run to.

The silence of the storage space was foreboding at best, hanging heavy in the air like a thick haze. Martin never did much like Artefact Storage - the stories Sasha used to tell from her brief stint in the department always left him monumentally grateful he got hired into the relative normality of the library when he first started at the Institute.

Before transferring to the Archives, it was all just that - stories. Sure, the stories held merit, but a level of separation from the goings-on in your haunted, evil workplace did help to maintain a level of indifference to the fact that monsters were real and the world was objectively more terrifying than most people would ever be aware of.

But now, after everything, the buzz of energy the building gave off was impossible to ignore. It hummed in his ears like an all-too-silent room, like his own blood was too loud in his head. It made him nauseous if he dwelled on it too long.

A strained, whimpered breath from beside him was enough to draw his wandering thoughts back from the cloudiness that the space around them seemed to hang over him, and his arms tightened in their protective barrier around the form leant against him.

“Hey- hey, I’ve got you, hold on,” he soothed as he lowered himself and Jon to the floor, propping his injured boyfriend up against the wall.

“Why did you bring us here?” Jon gritted out breathlessly, though it was immediately apparent the question wasn’t directed at Martin. He followed Jon’s gaze over his shoulder, where Sasha shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, her arms crossed tightly over her chest and shoulders hunched almost apprehensively. She looked down at them both with a drawn expression.

“Everywhere else we passed was either blocked off or locked,” she explained. “Look, I know you said it was dangerous-”

“Yes, it’s incredibly dangerous, Sasha!” Jon said, the alarm rising in his voice, “I thought I made that abundantly clear-”

“Well we didn’t have much of a choice, Jon!” she cut him off, matching his tone with her own edge of trepidation. “You were totally out of it the whole time we’ve been running, what was I supposed to do? Leave you both to the worms? To her?” her arms dropped from her chest to gesticulate widely at the door. “You can barely walk and the guys haven’t hit the CO2 yet. We can wait it out here, at least until we catch our breath.”

“She’s right, Jon,” Martin agreed softly, squeezing Jon’s arm. “Let’s just- take five and figure out what our next move is. Okay?”

Jon heaved a disgruntled breath, but eventually nodded. “Fine,” he said with no small amount of petulance. “But if we’re going to just wait around, let’s at least find some way to get this thing out of my leg. Surely there’s something sharp in here that won’t kill us for simply looking at it.”

As if manifested by the words themselves, the weight in Martin’s back pocket became impossible to ignore, and Jon must have clocked the twinkle in his eye by the look of curious suspicion on his face.

In all the chaos going on, Martin couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. He reached back and presented the corkscrew he’d had stowed away for a just-in-case, much like this. The pride and satisfaction that welled within him at the sight of Jon’s eyes blowing wide was more than enough to fuel that small flame deep within his chest.

“What, you think I learned nothing from last time?” Martin chided, and Jon gave a small laugh of disbelief as he stared at the small implement.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“I could stand to be reminded.”

“Sorry- I must be missing something,” Sasha interjected with an air of hesitancy, “What is that for?”

“Getting the worms out,” Martin held the tool up and gave it a helpful little twist in the air as he explained, “We realised knives didn’t really do the job, given the size of the worms and how slow they burrowed. Just made more sense.”

“I wouldn’t share the credit so readily, it was your crazy idea to carry one of those things around in the first place,” Jon mused affectionately. He looked like he was going to say something else, but his breath caught suddenly in his throat as another wince of pain shot up through his leg. Martin grimaced, his heart aching for the poor man. Jon continued, slightly more strain in his voice, “Alright, go ahead. Please.”

Martin nodded, uttering a soft “right” as he positioned the corkscrew over the offending injury.

Sure. Yes. He could do this. They’d been here before! Just dig the metal into Jon’s leg, twist, pull, and Bob’s your uncle. Worm problem sorted.

So why wasn’t his hand moving?

Martin’s brow twitched as he stared down the barrel of his own arm at the knife clutched firmly in his grip.

Wait-

Knife? When did-

Martin sucked in a sharp breath as his veins went ice cold. No.

No no no no no no

He could feel it again. The low, resonant rumbling of the building, crashing and crumbling and roaring so deeply in his ears he could barely think, barely breathe. Muscles taught, unmoving, unable to drop the awful blade clutched in a death grip in his hand. The metallic tinge of blood on his teeth and the rubble in his eyes and the pressure in his mind as he tried desperately not to scream-

His name, spoken distantly at first, pierced the heavy rumbling in his ears, and he was staring at the corkscrew in his hand.

“Martin?”

His eyes flicked up to find Jon’s concerned stare searching his face, and only then did the weight of Jon’s hands against his arms fully register.

“I- I can’t-” Martin choked out, unable to get a hold on his breathing as his heart thudded so hard against his ribcage he thought it might shatter, “I can’t.”

There was a gentle pressure against his shoulder as Sasha came into view beside him, crouched back on her heels. She reached out, slowly, and carefully pried the corkscrew from his trembling fingers with her other hand, and as soon as that weight was gone from his palm, he felt every muscle in his body release.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered, unable to do anything about the shake in his voice. He couldn’t tell if he was apologising for his inability to do this one, simple thing for Jon when he needed him, or-

Or for everything else.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and again, unable to stop himself, and Jon’s expression, so full of hurt and fear and worry for him just about shattered any ounce of resolve he might have had left.

“I’m so sorry-” it came out in a sob this time, and the next thing he knew, a pair of arms were wrapping around him and pulling him ever closer.

“Oh, Martin,” Jon breathed against his ear, his voice so tender it made him ache with it, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t even think-” he bit back the words before he could finish the thought, and instead carried on even softer, “It’s okay. I’m here, we’re okay.”

Ridiculous, Martin’s mind helpfully supplied in his mother’s voice. You’re being ridiculous.

Ugly, burning shame prickled across his skin as the thought twisted poisonously in his mind. Ridiculous. 

Perhaps he was. There was so much at stake, so many things going on that were bigger than them and out of their control and Martin didn’t even have it in himself to hold it together until they were out.

They were all scared. They were all stressed. He wondered numbly if he would live the rest of his life with that memory so starkly engraved into his very core; that visceral, bone-deep fear that shook him so utterly at the peak of the Panopticon as his whole world shattered and faded away in his bloody arms-

Lord, he needed therapy.

He drew a shaky breath and untangled himself from Jon’s embrace, as much as his whole being protested. They needed to get out here, and the longer he felt sad and sorry for himself, the more danger he was putting them in.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, as if the motion would shake him out of it, and he heard Jon tentatively ask, “Okay?”

Of course not, he wanted to say. I’m never going to get over this, am I? 

But the thought tasted bitter on his tongue. So instead, he nodded, not trusting his own voice in the moment as his hands fell to his lap, which were immediately scooped up in Jon’s. His chest felt so tight at the worry and affection so clearly visible on the other man’s face. He could be okay, if just for the moment. For him.

“I think it’s about time we get out of here,” Sasha’s voice broke through the tension, her tone soft and sympathetic. She knelt by Jon’s leg, making a show of the corkscrew she now held resolutely in her hand. “Ready, Jon?”

He barely had time to nod his affirmation before Sasha drove the metal screw into the dreadful, bulbous wound in Jon’s thigh, and the scream that ripped from his chest curdled something awful in the pit of Martin’s stomach. Jon’s nails dug rivets into the palms of Martin’s hands as the pain lanced up through his leg, and Martin gripped back just as tight.

A few sharp twists of the corkscrew and a yank were all that was needed for the worm to be pulled free of its fleshy home with a nauseating squelch, and it hit the floor with a dull, wet thud. It didn’t so much as twitch as it was left, discarded.

A few choice words fell from Jon’s lips in a harsh whisper as his head fell back to rest against the cool granite of the wall. The poor thing looked absolutely spent, and Martin gently brushed a few loose strands of hair from his face.

Jon’s eyes fluttered open with the touch, his lips quirking into a soft smile.

“You’d think, after everything, it would get easier,” Jon murmured, breathing the words with each heavy exhale. When he continued, the words were spoken with more purpose, “Thank you, Sasha.”

“Don’t mention it,” she told him, as the sharp sound of ripping fabric tore through the silence of the storage room. Martin just about jumped out of his skin as his head whipped around to find Sasha tearing a length of material from the bottom of her skirt.

“Bloody hell, Sasha,” Martin rasped in exasperation, which pulled a troublingly amused smirk out of her.

“Sorry. Not out of the woods just yet; he’s still bleeding,” she explained, and with a final tug, the strip of makeshift bandage was free, and she got to wrapping.

She made quick work of it, tying it off with a secure knot and tucking the excess material back in on itself. She was surprisingly adept at all this for someone Martin only really knew as a tech guru and researcher on the surface, and he made a mental note to change that once they were out of here.

“Thank you,” he told her, and he meant it. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and her smile softened with a small nod. He’d buy her lunch too, he decided.

With a small huff, Sasha got to her feet, dusting off her tattered skirt as she side-stepped around them to the door. The small window set into the wood didn’t offer much of a view to the outside, though Sasha did her best to peek through anyway.

The quiet that drew on as she squinted through the dull glass had Martin’s nerves alight with anxiety, and he couldn’t help craning his neck from his position on the floor, as if it would do absolutely anything to help him see what she was seeing.

“How’s it look out there?” he asked, trying to keep the apprehension out of his voice.

“Hm,” she sounded, eyebrows drawn in thought, “The worms do seem to have dispersed a bit. We might be able to make a run for it, if we wanted to.”

“I don’t know,” Martin responded with hesitancy, “We’re probably just going to end up stuck in the middle of it again if we start just- just running blindly into it again.”

There was a soft grunt from beside him as Jon began to push himself to his feet, and Martin quickly swooped in to help. Jon uttered a soft “thank you” as he leant his weight into Martin’s side, though he seemed to be doing better for himself with the removal of the worm. Thank god.

“If we can make it back to the Archives, we might be able to help the others,” Jon offered, though the mere thought sent a trill of nerves through Martin’s body. “It’s worrying that they haven’t set off the CO2 yet.”

“Yeah,” Sasha agreed, the soft worry on her face becoming more apparent as Jon put voice to what all of them were thinking. The boiler room really wasn’t that much further into the basement than the Archives were, surely they’d had enough time by now to-

He didn't want to entertain the thought.

“I, uh- There’s something else I should probably mention,” Jon started. The gravity to his tone immediately put Martin on edge, and a quick glance at Sasha told him she felt it too. Jon seemed to pause to consider his words before he went on, “Elias saw us, while we were running. He- he knows we’re here.”

The ever present pit in Martin’s stomach dropped to the floor.

Well. Shit.

“You’re- you’re sure?” Martin asked, hoping against all hope that maybe Jon wasn’t sure. Maybe it was just a guess- a stab in the dark, perhaps. But the reluctant nod Jon gave in return told him everything he needed to know. He was sure. He just wished he didn’t have to voice as much.

“Bastard,” he hissed, a whirlwind of bad-ends rushing to the forefront of his mind. As if things couldn’t get any worse, now they had Elias fucking Bouchard biting at their heels-

Something clattered to the floor somewhere deep within the storage room. He immediately cursed himself for having that thought.

They all froze. Sasha stared off owlishly into the dark, and Jon’s grip on Martin’s jumper had tightened ten-fold as not even the whisper of a breath lingered in the silent tension as the three of them strained their senses out into the room.

A foot step. Then another. And another. And then…

A figure. Shrouded in the dimness of the storage space. Too long, too tall; looming against the shadows that blotted out the corners like ink stains. It moved with an unnatural twisting of limbs as it slowly, gracelessly ambled towards them; what could only be described as its shoulders scraping against the ceiling of the room.

“Oh no,” Jon breathed, barely a whisper upon his lips.

“Are we running?” Sasha asked, so quiet Martin almost didn’t hear her. His nod was stilted, unsure, but he didn’t know what other option they had.

He took a shifting step backwards, Jon firmly plastered to his side, “I think we’re running.”

As though it was all the permission she needed, Sasha spun on her heels and made a wild grasp for the door handle. And suddenly, the whole room was thrown into motion.

The hulking form of the NotThem moved faster than it looked like it should be able to, its too many jointed limbs colliding with surrounding artefacts and sending them to the floor with an awful clamour of ear-piercing crashes.

It was on top of Sasha before Martin could even inhale enough of a breath to scream.

It knocked her to the ground, pinned between the door and the looming, twisted shape of its hunched body as it glared into her with a fever only a starved beast would have. 

Distantly, Martin could remember himself shouting. But the utterly petrified screams from Sasha and Jon’s frantic yelling by his ear muddied the whirlwind of sounds together.

His body went iced with terror as he watched the thing’s face split in two, and a mouth where a mouth had not been before tore open across the width of its head and unhinged, gaping open and wide with vicious-looking teeth like a snake preparing for a long-awaited meal.

He hadn’t watched any of his friends die before. He didn't even know Sasha was gone until a year later, and he hadn’t been at the Unknowing for Tim’s grand exit. He hardly even considered Daisy an acquaintance when she fell too deeply back into the Hunt.

He wanted to look away. He wanted to look away but he couldn’t; his eyes frozen on the visage of history repeating itself once again-

“Stop.”

The room went deathly still. Static prickled at the corners of Martin’s senses as he cast his eyes to the sound of the voice.

Jon had dislodged himself from Martin’s side and taken a step closer to the thing that had once worn Sasha’s identity in another lifetime.

The NotThem had stopped, frozen stiff with Sasha’s head barely out of reach from its gnarled, rotten teeth. A string of saliva dribbled onto her cheek.

Sasha was staring, wide-eyed and disbelieving at Jon as he stood there, fists balled and shoulders squared and staring daggers into the thing about to tear her to pieces.

A small, glowing green eye blinked into existence above Jon’s head, and Martin felt his heart stop.

“Jon… What are you doing?” Martin cautioned, his voice still wavering and breaking over the syllables.

“I’m ending this,” he spoke plainly, the static rising behind his voice. “I will not lose another person to the likes of this thing,” he spat the words, taking another step towards the creature. It looked like it wanted to recoil, to do anything, but it couldn’t move as more eyes blinked open and focused their gaze upon it.

“You who has no identity in this world, and must take what is not yours to be fed. You who fears to be known, yet aches to be seen. You who skulks and hides and rips and steals and bleeds and dies.”

There was a beat. Martin could feel the power, palpable and buzzing in the air like lightning before it strikes. The static bubbled in his ears, as if simply waiting for permission.

“I See you now,” Jon entoned, “And you will not have Sasha James.”

The whine of static hit its crescendo, and it was everything Martin could do not to cover his ears and cower away. He watched as the creature that had no throat to scream was ripped apart from the inside out and torn asunder from its very existence. It was gone, as if nothing had even happened, in moments.

The last eye blinked out from above Jon’s head. A small wobble in his step was all the warning Martin got before he collapsed to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Jon!” Martin cried out, the adrenaline finally kicking in as he rushed forward to catch him.

Martin let out a small, pathetic sound that was more whimper than breath as he stared into Jon’s unconscious face, pressing a trembling hand to his cheek. Soft breaths skirted over his skin, and Martin about collapsed with relief. He was out cold, but at least he was breathing. This man seriously had a penchant for dramatics that Martin did not much appreciate.

The breath he let out shook, and he finally looked up to make eye contact with Sasha, “Are you okay?”

She was staring at him, her eyes glassy with unshed tears and her hands trembling hard where she had them balled into the fabric of her torn skirt. He didn’t even wait for her response, he knew the answer. He opened his free arm to her in an offer, and without a second thought she took it, scrambling the short distance between them and throwing herself into his offered embrace. 

He squeezed her back, tight and secure, as he heard her breath hitch and her shoulders begin to shake.

Sasha James had always been the strong one in his eyes. The one who had her shit together. Unshakable in the face of fear and monsters beyond their comprehension. Hell, she’d willingly gone off with Michael of all things and barely battered an eyelid when she came back with a hole in her shoulder.

But she was still just a person, he had to remind himself. A person who hadn’t really faced anything like this before. A person who almost just died and could’ve done nothing in her power to stop it. Even so, it killed him to see her shake apart like this.

But Jon did it. He saved her. She was here, solid in his arms. The real her. 

He just hoped it hadn’t cost him too much to do so.

Martin pulled Jon’s unconscious form closer to himself as he did his best to soothe the sobs quaking through Sasha’s body. What she’d just been through was terrifying; he could let her have a moment before they had to move.

It was hard to say how long they sat like that, coming down from their close call with the NotThem, when a familiar sound rattled through the ceiling and the fire suppression system sprung to life. It doused the entire storage room in a thick cloud of carbon dioxide so quickly Martin barely had time to react; pulling his shirt up over his nose and crouching in closer to the two forms in his arms to shield their small huddle from as much of it as he could.

The chorus of thousands of small things without mouths screaming as one filled the air beyond the reinforced door of Artefact Storage. He’d heard it only distantly that first time the worms attacked, but it sounded just the same. Awful.

Eventually, slowly, the carbon dioxide tapered off its barrage and the room was left coated in a thick layer of smog. Martin waved his hand in an effort to dissipate some of it, coughing into his shirt. Sasha shifted her weight against him, her head lifting.

“They did it,” she said, wonderment and relief filling her voice. He could hear the part she wasn’t saying. They’re alive.

“We should get out of here,” he insisted. The Institute was going to start garnering a lot of unwanted attention soon and he needed to get himself and Jon out of the way.

Sasha’s head spun to face him, her eyes owlish and full of concern, “Will you be okay? Is- is Jon okay?” Her eyes flicked down to look at him, still unconscious in Martin’s arms. His nerves churned uncomfortably in his stomach. I don’t know, he didn’t say, this hasn’t happened before and that scares me.

Instead, he gave a small, tentative nod. “We’ll be fine. Go find the others, make sure they made it out okay.”

He could sense the hesitancy in her movements as her grip tightened ever so slightly on his sleeve, and every part of him understood why. He hardly wanted them to separate either. 

He gave her a smile; wobbly but hopefully reassuring enough, and it seemed to do the trick. She tugged him in for one last squeeze before she pulled away and rocked back onto her heels to stand.

“Meet us outside once everything has blown over,” she urged, “And be safe.” There was no reason for him to argue. He scooped Jon into his arms and stood, his nod more assured this time.

Sasha pulled the door to Artefact Storage open, and they both separated out into the Institute once more. Martin made a beeline for the tunnels.

Chapter Text

For the first time since the end of the world, Jon opened his eyes.

They winked open slowly at first; one on the palm of his hand, one between his shoulder blades, one above his heart, and then, all at once.

The problem was, he still couldn’t see. The darkness that surrounded him was thick and clung to his skin like ink. He felt as though he could drown in it, let himself be swallowed by its languid embrace-

But no. He had somewhere to be, right? Something… important to do.

He opened his mouth to call out into the empty, lapping void - a name flitting longingly over his tongue - but there was no mouth to open. Where there were once lips, a bulbous eye blinked lazily in its place.

Panic seized his chest. He wanted to scream, to tear at his face, but his body wouldn’t obey. The many eyes dotting his bony frame gawked out into the emptiness, desperate to drink something, anything, in against the inky void.

And then, a lilting voice pierced the silence.

The words didn’t sound like words, more suggestions of words than any coherent sort of language, but the intention was as clear as the sun, the sing-song tone of her ever-chipper voice unmistakable.

Every nerve in his body was alight, every animalistic instinct firing in his brain to run, flee, get away, but still his limbs wouldn't move. Hands, black as the abyss around him, groped from the darkness as if emerging from an old curtain, and he couldn’t flinch away as the cold, inhuman fingers pawed and poked and touched and grabbed at him as though he were some wonder to be prodded and understood. 

He watched.

He watched as their fingers rotted against his skin and black turned ashen and the burnt-tipped nubs squirmed against his bare flesh until they found purchase. The many eyes brandishing his skin squinted and blinked as the worms began to burrow into the sockets, wriggling through muscle and sinew until they made a home deep within his bones, his heart, his lungs, and he found that he could no longer breathe.

His chest convulsed, unable to gasp for a surfacing breath with no mouth to speak of. It clogged his veins, his organs, and his skin felt grainy and sodden as trails of muddied tears trickled from the eyes that could still cry.

They dripped away and off his fingertips, scattering into the nothingness beneath him, and he could feel a weightlessness overtake his body. The purchase his feet had once had dropped away, and he was falling.

Grains of dirt and sand whipped and stung at his skin as he plummeted into the darkness, his only point of reference the single, vast and gaping eye hovering distantly where the moon might have once been. It watched as he fell, and as he fell, he watched back.

A pinprick of something beneath him grew, and grew, until a bottom of this emptiness encompassed the down that he all but hurtled towards.

He wanted to close his eyes. But the eyes wanted to watch.

The bottom got closer, closer, closer, and with a sickening CRACK-

Jon sat bolt upright as a gasp ripped through his chest. His hands were immediately at his throat, clawing at the scarred skin with fingernails chewed too short as he heaved oxygen into his lungs with the desperation of a man gasping for air after nearly drowning. 

The world was loud.

It rang through his head like a gong, a cacophony of voices screaming to be heard and a barrage of things to be Known and Understood fighting for his attention. It thudded against the back of his eyes and he wanted nothing more than to claw his way out of his own skin to get away from the discordance reeling in his head.

It was too loud. It was too loud. 

He barely registered the voice calling his name over the noise until two hands wrapped around his wrists and the only thought that pierced his brain was panic.

He wailed something that was lost to the loudness in his ears and flailed his arms, desperate to get away away away from whatever was holding him down.

Almost immediately, the pressure on his wrists left, and he scrambled himself back further into whatever was cushioning him at his back. His palms pressed tight against his ears as he curled in on himself, and he just tried to breathe.

It was hard. Focusing on such a simple motor function had never been more difficult when it felt like the whole world was screaming at you. What was it that Martin had taught him? In for four, hold for seven, out for eight…

Slowly, the fog lifted. The maelstrom raging through his mind gradually calmed with each breath and it didn’t feel so much like he was suffocating anymore as he blinked his vision clear of the tears that streamed down his cheeks. The darkness was no longer there, either. Instead, a simple living space clarified around him, unfamiliar, and knelt on the floor in front of him was the frantic and scared, wide-eyed gaze of Martin, his hands balled tightly to his chest.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Martin spoke up softly once Jon’s eyes finally flitted to meet his. 

Just Martin, his mind echoed, as if to remind itself. A wash of equal parts relief and guilt soothed through him like a gentle riptide, and the taught string attached to the top of his spine felt like it snapped. He slumped back against what he now recognised as the arm of a sofa, and raked his fingers back through his hair until they came to rest against the nape of his neck.

“Sorry,” Jon responded in kind, his eyes averting to the blanket covering his lap. It was a soft faux fur. Pale blue.

Martin looked to make an aborted movement to reach out to him, but thought better of it. He shook his head, “No- no, don’t apologies. I shouldn’t have grabbed you, I’m sorry. You were just-” he took a breath, “I didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Jon nodded numbly and let his hands fall to his lap. He stared at them for a long while, watching as his fingers trembled with a mind of their own before he balled them up into tight fists in the blanket.

He couldn’t get the images of the nightmare out of his head. It felt so vivid and real, the awful feeling of those hands and worms and dirt still ghosting featherlight against his skin. The sensation was vile and it made his skin crawl the longer he allowed himself to dwell on it and he needed something else - anything else - to take his mind off it.

As if reading his mind, Martin asked cautiously, “Are you- is it okay if I touch you now?”

He didn’t have to think about it. Jon nodded again, more sure of himself this time, and in his periphery he watched as Martin rose from the floor and shifted to sit by Jon’s legs on the sofa. The closeness of his presence was already enough to dampen that tightness in Jon’s chest, and he felt himself exhale with it.

Martin didn’t make a move to reach out first - he often didn’t when Jon’s aversion to touch came in its greater waves. The level of understanding Martin showed when Jon could only think of himself as childish and overreacting had his heart tripping over itself, and he never knew how to properly show how grateful he truly was for him.

Jon scooted himself down the sofa until he was thigh-to-thigh with his boyfriend, and let his head fall to rest against the soft curve of his shoulder. Martin didn’t take long to take the hint, bringing his arms up to wrap so tenderly and so securely around Jon’s frame and pulled him closer. Jon snaked his arms around Martin’s middle, and practically melted into the embrace.

They sat like that for a long moment, the quiet of the room soothing any leftover nerves, and it was only then that the soft patter of rain against the window slowly faded into his consciousness. 

“What happened, love?” Martin asked, the question uttered softly against Jon’s ear as he ran a soothing hand up and down his back.

“Nightmare,” Jon responded plainly, voice still rough with sleep.

Martin hummed consideringly. “Nightmare? Or, y’know- Nightmare?” The emphasis put on the word conveyed exactly what he was asking, and Jon couldn’t help the titter of laughter that escaped him. Though the flutter of amusement through his chest only lasted so long, as he really, seriously assessed the question Martin posed to him. He didn’t like the implications of the answer he was leaning towards.

“I don’t know,” he eventually settled on, turning his head a little. “It felt… more real than a normal nightmare typically would. Whatever even constitutes as normal these days,” he punctuated the thought with a bitter exhale of a laugh.

He felt Martin’s head shift towards him more, and a soft kiss was pressed to his hair.

“I also…” Jon went on, though hesitated over the words. How could he explain that the rush didn’t stop even after he’d woken up? Even in the hush of the room they huddled in now, if Jon allowed himself to focus, the soft murmur of something would patter to the surface.

Well… not just something. He knew exactly what that something was - he’d heard it before. Many, many times.

He supposed there was really only one way to find out, and in a moment of boldness, he let the Knowledge come unbidden to the forefront of his mind, the sting of static encroaching in his ears.

You’re at the residence of Sasha James, who is currently out buying extra groceries at her local Aldi.

It’s currently 5:52pm. You’ve been unconscious for almost five hours and Martin has not left your side.

The neighbours saw the three of you enter. They considered coming over to ask if you needed help, but the couple talked each other out of it.

They’ve rented the place for three years and four months, Veronica works night shifts while Sam-

Jon shook his head, banishing the knowledge spiral as he blinked open his eyes he hadn't realised he’d closed. Martin had pulled back from him at some point and stared back at him owlishly, and Jon could immediately tell he knew something had happened.

“Jon, your eyes,” Martin said carefully, and Jon could see as clear as day the glint of a green glow reflecting in Martin’s gaze from his own. He felt the pit in his stomach grow as the concerns dancing in his mind turned leaden in their surety. His powers were back, there was no denying that now.

Jon’s mouth worked to form words that wouldn't come, just as a key in a lock rattled, and both their heads swivelled to look.

The wash of panic only lasted a moment, before the front door nudged open and Sasha pushed her way through with an impressive amount of shopping bags hooked over one arm and wrestling with an umbrella in the other.

She glanced them as she stepped into the room and immediately paused in her steps, eyes bright and blinking in surprise.

“You’re awake!” she announced after a second, bumping the front door shut with her hip and dropping her burdens to the floor where she stood before she hurried over to the pair.

“Hi, Sash-” Jon had started to say before the wind was almost knocked out of him as Sasha pulled him bodily into a tight and impassioned hug.

Jon’s hands hung uselessly in the air as he looked to Martin over her shoulder, who was giving him a funny little smile and simply shrugged a shoulder. Helpful, he wanted to snark at him.

Instead, his arms hesitantly returned the embrace, to which Sasha gave him one last squeeze before she pulled back a moment later. She held him at arm's length by the shoulders, her eyes flitting between his, “Thank you.”

“Uh-” was all he managed to croak in response, and the short circuiting confusion must have been evident on his face as she rolled her eyes and shook him a little by the shoulders.

“You saved my life, you goon!” she said with exasperation, the grin on her face so vibrant and wonderful.

Jon blinked. “Oh,” was the only sound he could think to muster. He’d almost forgotten the reason he was even here in the first place; over exerting himself - or at least that’s how he understood it - in order to destroy the awful Stranger spawn before it took his friend all over again.

He wasn’t really used to being thanked for that sort of thing. Saving people wasn’t exactly his MO, as much as he’d thrown himself into the face of danger to try and change that. He could count on exactly one, singed hand how many people's lives his presence had had a meaningful impact on, which - when he thought about it too much - quickly paled in comparison to the amount he’d had a hand in ruining. The numbers weren’t exactly stacked in his favour.

Even those he had helped hadn’t made it out totally unscathed in the end.

He and Melanie had ended on mostly neutral terms (or at least he hoped they did), though she certainly never let him forget the lasting trauma he left her battling after his impromptu ghost bullet surgery.

He’d had a strange comradery with Daisy after he’d pulled them both out of the coffin. He’d never forgiven her for everything she’d done - and she’d never asked him to - but he did consider her a friend in the end. It was the first time he felt like someone actually understood what he was going through, and didn’t completely resent him for it. He only wished he could have done more for her.

And Martin.

Barreling head-first into the Lonely might be up there in his list of Stupidest Things Jonathan Sims Has Ever Done, but he could hardly find it in himself to regret any part of it. Watching Martin solidify in his arms and the colour return to his cheeks when he finally Saw everything he’d ever meant to Jon had made everything up until that point worth it.

It was hard to watch him struggle with the lingering effects of the Lonely for so long after, though. The Forsaken was not known for letting go once it had its talons in so deep.

“I uh-” he continued after a moment, reigning his thoughts back in. Maybe… maybe this time it could be different. “I suppose I did.”

“I suppose I did,” Sasha mocked him in exasperation. “Come on - you blew that thing to pieces, don’t be modest!” she batted his arm lightly, his internal battle completely unbeknownst to her. Jon chuckled slightly hysterically at that.

“I didn’t know you still had it in you,” Martin remarked, and Jon could hear the unspoken question behind his words.

“Neither did I,” he admitted softly. Even now, he could still feel the thrum of static at the corners of his mind. The fact that he seemed to have any control over it at all was his most startling realisation so far.

Sasha eyed them both for a moment. “Neither of you seem very excited about the idea of being able to kill monsters. Isn’t this a good thing?”

Jon gave her a sheepish smile, “It’s a little more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”

Sasha sniffed. “Alright, well. Uncomplicated it for me, then.”

Fair point, he supposed. It wasn't like they weren't all knee-deep in this shit fest already, he probably owed that much to her at this stage anyway. Jon let out a contemplative breath as his eyes flicked between Sasha's - the burning curiosity behind those eyes fierce enough to set a house ablaze - before he turned his gaze to Martin. “Would you put on some tea? I think there's some things we need to discuss.”

Chapter Text

“How are the others?” Jon was asking, the warm mug of English Breakfast handed to him moments ago now nestled neatly in the crook of his crossed legs. His fingernails tinked lightly against the painted ceramic as he drummed them in way of keeping himself in some kind of motion. He never was good at sitting still, Martin thought fondly.

“They’re doing okay,” Sasha said, her eyes shifting their attention down to her own mug, held like a comfort between her hands. She shifted slightly where they now found themselves sat across from each other on the carpet in her living room. “I managed to catch up with them not long after I separated from you guys. Poor Jon was definitely worse for wear when I found them… but they were all together, which was a huge relief.”

Some lingering weight seemed to lift from Jon’s shoulders at the mention of everyone making it out alive, and he sagged ever so slightly against the sofa at his back. He nodded sagely, “Good. That’s good.”

“When you say… worse for wear,” Martin prompted gently. 

Sasha looked up at him with a weary quirk to her lips. “You’d have thought he’d taken the full brunt of the worms just by looking at him. He was quarantined by the ECDC as soon as they found us. They warned him the worm bites were probably going to scar.”

Jon scoffed a soft laugh beside him; a humourless, bitter little thing that tugged at Martin’s heartstrings. He squeezed Jon’s knee from his spot beside him on the floor, and Jon bumped their shoulders together gently.

“Last I heard,” Sasha continued with a bit more optimism, “Jon and Martin were planning on staying with Tim, at least for the next few days. I don’t think any of them really wanted to be alone after everything that’d happened.”

Martin smiled a little at that, “That’s… that's really good.”

It was really good. Thinking back to their own post-worm experience, the interpersonal relationships between himself and his colleagues unfortunately left something to be desired, even before Jon's paranoia-induced stalking caused the massive rift that it did. Martin would have given anything to have some sort of company in the weeks that followed, but, well… his options were limited, and he didn’t really know how to ask.

Jon let out a soft breath beside him, and when Martin looked over, his expression was pinched, eyes searching the dark liquid in his lap for answers he clearly wasn't finding.

“He was still marked, though,” Jon uttered quietly. When he didn't continue, Martin prompted with a soft, “hm?”

Jon raised his eyes then, his hand coming away from the mug to gesticulate as he spoke. 

“After everything. After every warning and every precaution we could have taken, I- he- this Jon was still marked. I just-” he threw his hand up in a motion of defeat before it landed gingerly back in his lap. He sighed, “I just don't know what we could have done differently.”

“Probably not much,” Sasha admitted, which garnered a look from Jon. She held a placating hand in front of her and rushed to say, “I just don’t feel like there was anything else we could have done. We were as prepared as we could have been - and everyone did make it out! That has to count for something.”

Jon’s head dipped, and he silently took a sip of tea. Eventually he said, “I suppose.”

Martin shared a look with Sasha, and just shrugged a shoulder. Jon; ever the optimist. Not that Martin could necessarily blame him for his dazzling worldview. Sure, things could have gone better. Things always could have gone better, but at least this time they’d made it to the other side with one less casualty. One less casualty that was sat across from them right now, sharing a cuppa with them.

Sasha leaned forward, placing a hand lightly on Jon’s knee. He looked up at this, and Martin watched as their eyes met, and their expressions softened.

“You’ve done a good thing, Jon,” she told him, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’re all okay because of you. Both of you.”

“I’d say we did a pretty bloody good job this time around, all things considered,” Martin said.

A small huff left Jon’s nose, the whisper of a smile on his lips. “And I am glad for it, believe me.”

Sasha returned his smile, and after a gentle squeeze of his knee, she pulled herself away.

“You all got time off I hope?” Martin asked Sasha - only somewhat meant as a subject change - to which she nodded.

“Three weeks at least, we were told in no uncertain terms,” she lowered her voice in what was obviously her best Elias impression, and Martin couldn’t help the titter of laughter that bubbled from his chest.

“Good. Take advantage of that.”

“Oh, I plan to. I’ve already got a trip booked to go see my family next week. I’m milking this of everything it’s got-”

The thought was interrupted by a loud bzzt, bzzt, bzzt, and it took a moment before any of them realised it was Sasha’s phone ringing. Sasha scooped it up from the coffee table and her brow wrinkled in curiosity.

“Unknown number,” she muttered to herself, and moved to swipe the call away, just as Jon reached out a stalling hand.

“Answer it,” he said quickly. Sasha’s eyes darted up to meet his.

“What?”

“Answer it,” he repeated, his fingers curling as his hand retreated back to his lap. His eyes were wide, and Martin could see the tension in his jaw as his mind worked to find the words. “I can’t See who’s calling.”

If Sasha’s expression could become any more perplexed, there was no doubt in Martin’s mind it would have. She eyed the still-buzzing phone in her hand with an air of suspicion, before her thumb swiped against the screen and she held it to her ear.

“Hello?” she answered, followed by a drawn silence. Martin’s lungs started to burn with the anticipation of it… until he realised it was just because he was holding his breath. He let it out shudderingly, and could have sworn he heard Jon do the same.

“Martin?” she asked, baffled, into the phone. A jolt of something rushed through Martin upon hearing his own name, and his ears prickled. She continued, “Sorry, I’ll have to take a message-”

Sasha’s voice halted as though she was cut off, and her eyes slowly drifted over to Martin.

Oh.

That can’t be good.

“Um,” was all she said, her throat working around whatever lump had formed there. Almost absently, Sasha held the phone out to him. “It’s for you?”

All he could think to do was stare. Surely whoever was on the other end of the line didn’t want him? It had to be a mistake. A simple, reasonable mistake and he’d explain that no, he in fact wasn’t who they were after. They’d laugh it off, he’d wish them a good evening, and they’d be done with it. Right.

He glanced to Jon at his side, if for nothing else but some indication of what he should do.

But he was no help. Jon was staring daggers into the phone, and if looks could kill, the poor thing would have exploded on sight. His eyes were glowing again, too. But it seemed… strained, almost.

Alright. Well. To hell with it, then.

Martin set his shoulders, and took the phone. His tongue felt leaden in his mouth as he rounded out the word, “Hello?”

“Hi, Martin,” came a crooning voice, laced with the crackling feedback of a phone he was all too familiar with. If you’d told him his heart had stopped beating in that moment, he would have put bets on it. 

“Annabelle?” Martin all but choked on the name, and Jon was at full attention. The faint hiss of static began to thrum in the air around him.

“Miss me?” she asked pleasantly. Martin sputtered.

“What the hell do you want? How did you-”

Annabelle tutted through the receiver, cutting him off. “I know you were never one for pleasantries, Martin, but this is just rude, even for you.”

“Put it on speaker,” Jon’s voice had taken on that deeper quality. It left no room for argument.

Not that Martin even would have. The phone dropped away from his ear and his other hand raised to the screen. He hadn’t realised just how much he was shaking, and it took a moment of gathering himself before he could confidently press speaker without fumbling it.

Everyone held their breath as the seconds dragged on.

“Have I got everyone’s attention, now?” Annabelle asked, her usual cheerful lilt carrying her voice through the air.

Jon’s fingers gripped furiously at Martin’s sleeve, the force of it rocking Martin’s hand that clutched the phone.

“Annabelle Cane,” he spat, as though the name itself were a poison on his teeth to be rid of. She hummed, amused.

“Hello, Archivist. Long time no see.”

“Was that a joke?” Martin muttered at the same time Jon’s voice grew in its intensity, “How did you know you could find us here?”

“I didn’t,” she said plainly. Martin could practically hear the smile on her lips, “Not before today. You really ought to be more careful, Jon.”

The silence must have dragged on a second too long, as Annabelle’s voice came through the speaker once more.

“You don’t know,” she said slowly, almost sounding surprised. Martin could hardly tell if it was purely meant to rile Jon up, but nonetheless, it was working.

He all but snarled at her, “Don’t know what?” Static prickled at the edges of the question.

Annabelle laughed.

“Even after everything, you are still so delightfully dim. Didn’t you feel it?”

“Feel-” Jon began to ask, but stopped. The green of his eyes flashed for a moment, and his face blanched. 

Annabelle hummed approvingly, “There it is.”

Martin’s pulse quickened. He wrapped a hand around Jon’s wrist, still gripping onto his sleeve, “Jon, what is it? What is she-”

“They know,” he breathed, his gaze glassy and distant. “The Avatars. They can- they know where I am.”

Annabelle let out a soft, staticy chuckle, “I was wondering how long it would take for you to fuck this one up, Jon. You can be rather… careless, sometimes.”

“What the hell does that mean? How do they know?” Martin demanded, holding the phone closer to his face, as if that would help pull any answers out of her.

Annabelle tutted. “All in due time, little bug. I can't just give you all the answers right away.”

“Like hell you can't! What'd you even call us for then? To gloat?”

“To warn you,” she said simply. “You helped the Mother a great deal getting us here. I'm just returning the favour.”

“Good bloody load of help you've been, all you’ve accomplished so far is pissing us off.”

“Perhaps,” she purred. “It is just my nature, you understand. But perhaps we can help each othe-”

“No,” Jon cut her off. When Martin glanced at him, his eyes were dark. “Make your intentions clear or we speak no further on this.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Archivist,” she warned, “Considering you have a very large target on your back now, you need all the help you can get.”

“What target?” Martin demanded indignantly, “Someone explain this to me, I'm sick of you bloody Avatars talking in riddles at each other! I thought I was done with that!”

“I called the attention of the Eye,” Jon said plainly, his own eyes flashing briefly before blinking it away.

Martin’s mouth opened to urge them for more, to insist he go on, but his mouth shut with a soft clack of his teeth when he realised.

Their encounter with the NotThem.

“And so, The Watcher’s favourite little toy has made a grand re-entrance onto the stage,” Annabelle finished for him. Martin could practically sense the flourish. “Welcome back.”

“Hang up,” Jon gritted out. Martin looked at him, surprised.

“What?” Martin asked over Annabelle’s hastened, “Oh, don’t be stupid-”

“Hang up the phone, Martin.”

“You’re making a mistak-” her voice cut off as Martin ended the call.

The room fell silent, save for the arrhythmic patter of rain hitting the window.

“I uh,” Jon started weakly, then shook his head. “I need to step outside for a moment. Fresh air,” he added, almost as an afterthought, and stood so quickly Martin barely had a moment to protest.

And he was out the door.

Martin sat, shaken, as he stared at where Jon had been moments ago. A gentle cough pulled him out of his head and only then did he remember Sasha had been there the whole time. She looked at him with her brow pinched in sympathy, and nodded her head towards the door.

“Go after him,” she told him, her voice soft.

Martin swallowed, then nodded, and as if the motion jostled something loose in his mind, he was on his feet in seconds, palming Sasha's phone back to her with a soft “thank you”, and stumbling out the front door.

The rain had picked up since Sasha had gotten home earlier that evening. Thick, heavy droplets hit Martin's skin as he stepped out into it. His glasses were immediately deemed useless, and he tucked them away into his pocket.

Not that he needed them so much for his most immediate goal: check Jon hadn't done anything stupid in the 60 seconds he’d been out of sight.

And to Martin's relief, there he stood; a few metres from the front of Sasha's duplex, soaked to the bone with his arms wrapped around himself and looking so utterly small. Martin clicked his tongue pityingly, before making his way over to his sodden boyfriend. Jon's back was to him, so he ducked his head around a little to try and get his attention.

“Jon?” he asked softly. At first, he couldn't be sure if his voice was swallowed up by the rain, but Jon's shoulders hiked up a little in response.

Now that Martin could get a better look at him, his posture was incredibly rigid, and his chest looked to be expanding too quickly with each breath.

Ah. Martin knew the feeling well.

“Hey,” he tried again carefully, rounding to now face Jon front on. His hands ghosted lightly against Jon's arm in an attempt to reach out, and only then did Jon's eyes flick up to finally meet his. They were glassy and full of trepidation, and Martin planted a firmer touch against his biceps with an affirming squeeze. “Talk to me, Jon.”

Jon's mouth gaped a little as he struggled to get the words out, each breath coming out shuddered and rough, until eventually he said, “I- I can't do this again, Martin. I-I-I-I can't-” his voice broke over a harsh inhale, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Jon, hey-” Martin tried to sooth, but Jon shook his head harshly and his hands fell away from his chest to grasp desperately at Martin's sleeves. His eyes were wide and looked into Martin's, pleadingly.

“I can't do this again, Martin! I’m so tired of fighting against a world that wants me dead. Why can’t we just have our ending? Why do we need to be in the centre of it every single time? Why can’t we just-” his breath hitched before he could finish and his head fell forward, his fingers raking back through his soaked hair to grasp desperately at the roots.

“Okay, okay,” Martin quelled, and gently cupped Jon’s neck in his hands. “I understand. I’m there with you. Okay? You’re well within your right to react like this, lord knows you of all people are well overdue for a massive freakout by now.”

A wet, shuddered breath pushed itself from Jon’s chest, and nothing could have convinced Martin that it wasn’t a laugh. He rubbed soothing circles into the soft, pockmarked skin at Jon’s jaw with his thumbs.

“Just breathe with me, yeah? There you go, love, big breath in.”

And they breathed together. In and out, until the panic had diluted and the fear seemed only like background noise, washed out by the pattering of rain around them. They were absolutely soaked through; hair plastered to foreheads and shoes coated with mud, but there they stayed, anchored to each other, no amount of downpour able to wash that away.

Once Jon’s breathing had evened out, he looked exhausted, the dark circles under his eyes more obvious now that his shoulders sagged to match. Martin brushed a thumb over the bump of his cheek.

“Okay?”

There was a moment of hesitation, but Jon nodded, his eyes staring half-lidded at a random point on Martin’s shirt. He looked distant, the shine in his eyes not quite yet returned. The knot in Martin’s chest twisted just a little tighter.

“Look at me,” he asked gently, but Jon's eyes remained downcaste. He repeated, more firmly this time, “Jon, look at me. What do you see?”

Jon’s eyes did flick up this time, wide and surprised and searching. He stared for a long time, those deep, beautiful eyes staring so reverently into Martin’s that his heart ached with it. And eventually, Jon seemed to find what he was looking for, as a small, wobbly smile made its way onto his lips.

“I see you, Martin.”

Relief suffused from Martin’s lungs, and he smiled too. “Whatever happens- whatever crazy stuff throws itself at us next, I'm here for you this time, no matter what, okay? We've got this.”

Jon laughed weakly, “Apparently so.” He let his head fall against Martin's chest, and Martin held him a little tighter.

“Come on, let's get you inside before you catch your death. Sasha will be worried sick.”

Jon nodded, and together they trudged back to their newest temporary home, where Sasha was waiting for them in the doorway. Martin had no idea how long she’d been watching, but he could hardly find it in himself to care.

“All good?” she asked, immediately throwing towels over their heads as she moved aside for them.

Martin offered her a smile as he ruffled it against his hair, “As good as we can be.”

Sasha nodded. “Go take a shower and warm up, the pair of you. I'll go find some clothes you can change into.”

“Oh, uh- thank you, but-” Martin stuttered out as he gestured vaguely to himself. Jon would probably easily fit into whatever Sasha could throw at him. Martin, however… was a bit of a bigger guy. He didn't much like his chances.

Sasha simply waved him off, “I have some of Tim's clothes lying around here somewhere, I'm sure we can make do.”

“You have some of Tim's clothes?” Jon asked, almost perplexed by the thought. Sasha just smiled and gave a cheeky little shrug over her shoulder as she made off to her bedroom.

Chapter Text

The first time Jon woke that night, it was 2:03am.

His eyelids fluttered open, the heaviness of sleep falling away like the drape of a curtain, and he stared out into a darkness not unlike that which visited him in his dreams sometimes. Panic prickled through him for just a moment, but the disorienting haze of disrupted sleep quickly lifted, and he remembered where he was.

Sasha’s guest bedroom was a small and cosy thing. An oil diffuser bubbled quietly off in the corner, leaving the room suffused in the gentle scent of lavender. To help with sleep, they’d decided earlier that night. A stream of moonlight filtered in through a crack in the drawn curtain, and now that Jon’s eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the room, he could make out the slow whir of the ceiling fan above. Rain continued to patter gently against the window, almost melodically.

The blankets pulled to his chest were a welcome weight over his body; grounding and warm against the chill of the room around him. He shifted, only just, and felt a pressure tug against the sheets where the warm embrace of an arm rested limply over his middle.

His head fell to the side, and he saw Martin there. His face was mushed up into the pillow, laid on his side and breathing deep and calm. His hair was all mussed from sleep, and Jon already knew that he would try to wrestle with his unruly curls in the morning to get rid of that sleep-ruffled look Martin disliked so much on himself. Jon often wished he wouldn’t.

Everything felt… muted. He'd quickly learned after waking earlier that evening that he could turn down the part of his mind that drank in his surroundings like a man on the edge of terminal dehydration. Not all the way, but just enough to feel like his mind was still his own. For the most part.

Though he could numb the sensation, it was still eager to Know. Like delicate fingers poking and prodding against a sheet at whatever was hidden below. And carefully, tentatively, his awareness peeked outside the small space of the bedroom.

In the lounge, the distant thrum of the city nightlife could be heard beyond the cracked window. Cups of half-drank tea sat abandoned on the coffee table, which Sasha had reassured them would be dealt with in the morning, it wasn’t a big deal. It had been a long day, after all, and they all needed some rest. It could wait.

Sasha… Jon was careful when he Looked to her. She had gone to bed not long after Jon and Martin had collapsed in a heap in their borrowed pyjamas, sleep claiming them as soon as their heads had hit the pillow. She had laid awake for some time, deep in her thoughts and replaying the events of the day over and over in her head. Jon couldn’t much blame her for that; he was surprised she could sleep at all with everything that had happened in the last 24-hours. But slowly, she had drifted, if only with the reassurance that, if anything bad were to happen, there were two people she trusted just a wall away that would protect her. Her dreams did not disturb her that night.

Jon came back to himself, and couldn’t help but acknowledge how peaceful it all felt, yet the pit in his belly didn’t seem to care. His chest was as tight as it had felt earlier that night, only this time he could at least breathe against it.

When he closed his eyes again, the nightmare that had woken him replayed itself, projected against his eyelids like an old film.

Daisy’s face stared back at him, morphed and just monstrous enough that he could still be certain it was her. She’d had him by the throat, dragging him through the woods to god knows where to do god knows what to him. He still had Michael Crew’s blood drying on his face and could smell the sharp stench of death and gore wafting from Daisy’s every heaving breath. She’d shoved his back against a tree, her claws digging deep, pitted holes into his neck, and in that moment he had known, with a certainty he'd never felt before, that no one would look for him once he was gone.

Then he’d woken up.

He shuddered out a quiet breath and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes until stars danced in his vision, banishing the memory. It’d been a very long time since he'd had a nightmare about that , let alone a nightmare that was purely of his own making.

His dreams since they fell from the panopticon had been blissfully silent. Whether that meant he no longer dreamt at all, or he was just fortunate enough not to remember them after the fact, he couldn't say. And truth be told, he hadn't really cared to know, either. It'd been the best sleep he'd gotten in years, and he dared not question it.

Perhaps this was a fine compromise. If his dreams had to turn rotten again, he thought numbly, he would prefer they consisted of his own horrors than the alternative. Contain the suffering to just one mind, and all that.

He thought about waking Martin, if only to entertain a brief moment of selfishness. But no, he wouldn’t. He never would, given the choice. Sleep felt like such a privilege to them, even still, and Jon would hate himself for taking that small respite from him.

Nightmares weren’t new to him, anyway. If he could handle them in the hollows of his own, empty flat, then he could bear them just fine now.

His hands dropped from his face, and he sighed into the heaviness the night often brought about with it. He’d already resigned himself to not getting much more sleep that night.

The second time Jon woke that night, he’d barely dunked a toe into the tepid puddle of sleep when a sound snatched him back to consciousness. His eyes snapped open and stared blindly at the ceiling, eyes flitting back and forth between points of nothing as he strained his ears out into the darkness.

Silence.

Then it came again. A soft inhale that sounded more like a whimper than a breath. He looked beside him, and his gaze fluttered over Martin’s dulled features in the dark. Martin had rolled onto his back at some point since Jon last woke, and his breathing sounded more stilted and irregular than it had before. Jon’s brow knitted as he watched on in silence, and once his eyes had adjusted to the dim room once more, he could see Martin’s own pinched expression clearer.

Jon propped himself up on one elbow and gazed down at him. Whatever dream Martin was having seemed unpleasant, and it only took a moment of back and forth with himself for Jon to decide to go back on that earlier moment of selfishness.

The pads of his fingers skirted softly over the apple of Martin’s cheek before gently combing them back into his wild, sleep-mussed curls. The motion dislodged the strawberry scent of Sasha’s conditioner she’d let him use earlier that night, and Jon took a moment to enjoy the feeling of his soft ringlets between his fingers before grazing his nails soothingly over his scalp.

“Martin,” he called softly, and his heart swelled as he watched his boyfriend’s nose crinkle up in that way it always did when he was woken prematurely. Then, with a soft gasp, his eyes shot open, and it seemed to take a moment for him to remember where he was before his eyes settled on Jon.

Martin’s expression softened, and a long breath left him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jon echoed, brushing a few stray curls from Martin’s forehead. “It looked like you were having a bad dream.”

It was as if speaking the words brought the memory back to the forefront of Martin’s thoughts, and his eyes screwed shut as he scrubbed his hands over his face. A moment later, they fell back to his chest and he turned his head more to face Jon, “Sorry. Did I wake you up?”

Jon shook his head, “I wouldn’t mind if you had, but no. I’ve been awake.”

Martin’s brow creased, “Trouble sleeping?”

A despondent smile tugged at Jon’s lips against his will. “A little,” he said, honestly.

Martin shifted onto his side to face him, his hand coming to rest against Jon’s waist. “All right?” Martin asked, trying his very best to stifle a yawn, bless him.

Jon joined him on the pillow, his hand moving to tangle at the back of Martin’s scalp as he inched himself closer. “I feel I should be asking you that question. I didn’t think you dreamt of the Lonely anymore.”

It was only as the words left his tongue that he realised what he’d said, and his mouth snapped shut with an audible click . Martin just stared at him, now sobered from his sleep-daze, his mouth forming a small “o“ as if at a loss of what to say.

Hot shame began to prickle up Jon’s neck, and he moved to pull away.

“Martin, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-” he began to say, the words tumbling from his lips in a clumsy excuse of an apology, but they stuck in his chest as Martin’s hand caught his retreating wrist. And now that he looked, there was no anger in Martin’s eyes.

A soft sigh left his boyfriend’s nose, though it wasn’t unkind. He just looked at Jon, all sympathy and understanding, and it made his heart ache in his chest.

“You’re fine, Jon,” he said, hushed. Jon could tell it wasn't fine fine; Martin never liked it when Jon dug around in his head, even if it was unintentional, but. He also just seemed tired and resigned to the whole thing as much as Jon did. He wasn't sure what part of it upset him more.

Martin seemed to take a moment to think, his gaze drifting lazily over Jon's face like it was the only thing in the world that existed to him in that moment. Eventually, he brought Jon's knuckles to his lips in a tender, featherlight kiss before tucking their laced fingers under his cheek. His head dipped forward with the motion, so close that their foreheads knocked gently together. Whatever tension Jon held in his body completely washed away, and he relaxed.

“I don't,” Martin started, then seemed to reassess what he was saying, “I didn't. Dream about the Lonely, I mean. Not since- God. Since Salesa’s? I haven't really…” He considered for a moment. “I don't really remember my dreams anymore, since we got here.”

Jon hummed, “I know the feeling.”

Martin looked up at him, questioningly.

Jon took a breath. “I dreamt for the first time tonight as well. About- well,” he hesitated briefly, “about my own problems. Which is a step up from before, I suppose.”

Martin's expression twisted a little, and he uttered a soft “oh, Jon” as he shifted and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Jon's eyes fluttered shut with the motion.

“Bad day all ‘round, huh?” Martin mused softly into his hair, and Jon breathed a small laugh.

“I guess you could say that.”

“Well,” Martin said resolutely, “I think we’ve had enough avatar and fear talk to last us another lifetime. I think we do something especially mundane and go for breakfast in the morning.”

Jon couldn’t help but scoff. “With what money?”

“Sasha said she'll pay if I do the washing up for a week.”

Jon pulled back to look at him, aghast, “Since when?”

“Since tomorrow morning. When I ask her.”

Jon had to cover his mouth to stop himself barking out a laugh, and then bapped Martin on the arm. “A bloody nuisance, you are,” he chided with a betraying smile, and Martin devolved into a fit of giggles.

Jon loved him. He loved him so, so dearly he could hardly believe it could all fit inside one frayed and weathered body without bursting.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said softly, so utterly and completely gone on him. “I think I’d like that, though.”

“Good,” Martin said, his smile softening as the quieted laughter subsided, “It’s a date.”

Jon hummed contentedly and let his head sink back into the pillow, faces so close the tip of his nose lightly brushed Martin’s. They stayed like that for a while, just breathing in the presence of the other in the calmness of night that was so rare for them just a few months ago. It still felt surreal sometimes whenever Jon thought back. The Panopticon, the horrors that the Change brought with it. Hell, even before all that when Jon thought he was working some normal, boring office job. It was hard not to think of his past self as naïve. He should have known, but he also knew that he simply never could have.

He was just thankful to have had Martin through all of it, even if he didn’t necessarily know it. Martin, who was warm and understanding and kind of a bitch when he wanted to be. Martin, who cared so much about Jon even when everyone else was telling him he shouldn’t. Martin, who, despite everything, still loved him.

It made his heart feel full and bright and totally and utterly besotted. He’d find it embarrassing if Martin’s smile didn’t completely light up his world like his own personal beacon anytime he so much as told him that he loved him.

Jon wasn't sure what expression his face must have been making; he didn’t so much try to hide it these days and often had a habit of wearing his heart on his sleeves when it was just the two of them, so it was hard to tell when all those gooey emotions bled to the surface. But that moment must have been one of them, as Jon’s wandering mind was brought back to the present by a soft hand against his cheek.

Martin often looked at Jon like he’d hung the moon, which Jon thought was absurd and oftentimes underserved, but when he looked at him like that ; like Martin knew exactly what was going through Jon’s head and was still pleasantly awed to find that it echoed even a fraction of his own – well, that just melted him, didn’t it.

Jon might have had something from his bleeding heart to say about that, but before the chance was even afforded to him, an arm fell around his shoulders and he was bundled up in a swath of blankets, pulled ever closer in Martin’s arms as a big, wet kiss was pressed against his cheek. He squawked in protest before remembering it was the middle of the bloody night and, not for the first time that night, slapped a hand over his mouth and shoved at Martin in faux-indignation.

“We’re going to wake up Sasha if you’re not bloody careful,” he reprimanded in a harsh whisper, but Martin just snorted.

“We? I can’t help that I find you so bloody cute when you get like this. I just wanna eat you up-” he nosed his face into Jon’s cheek, and Jon’s barely-there façade crumbled away.

“Martin!” he complained, though it was only in tone as the smile plastered on his face shone through. It was all that was needed to send Martin into a second fit of muffled laughter into the sheets, and what a wonderful sound it was; hearing Martin’s unguarded joy offered up so freely, just for him. Every titter sent his heart fluttering, and that pride within him swelled knowing that he was the one that caused it. After everything, it was nice to have that reminder that, though he might not be human anymore, he could still feel like one.

And in moments like this, he was still only but a man. And a petty one at that, even he could admit. So, while distracted in his apparently undying amusement, Jon propped up just slightly onto an elbow and slithered his hands up under Martin’s jaw, pulling a shocked little yelp from his boyfriend as his body jolted with the touch.

“Jon, your hands are absolutely freezing!” he hissed, affronted, his shoulders hiking up to intercept Jon’s icy fingers. Jon couldn’t keep the smug smile from his face.

“All the better to hold you with, my dear,” he hummed, snaking those very fingers to the back of his neck and basking in the warmth there as Martin squirmed in his own self-made blanket prison.

“We need to get you some gloves or something, that can’t be normal – your fingers are like bloody ice.”

“Now why would I ever do that when I have my own personal hot water bottle right here.”

Before Martin could voice any sort of protest, Jon used the leverage of his hands at the back of Martin’s head to pull himself forward, pressing their lips together. He felt Martin melt against him almost instantly, and he was sure he would never get sick of the feeling.

With a slow exhale through his nose, they kissed, soft and sweet and unhurried, savouring it for everything that it was in the gentle blanket of darkness that seemed to make the rest of the world disappear.

When they parted, Jon settled into his cocoon, nosing his way under Martin’s chin like a cat seeking out the warmest spot to nap, and the arms encompassing his form like a guard against the world tightened their hold around him. His eyes fluttered closed with the soft press of lips against his forehead.

“D’you want to talk about it?” Martin asked then, his voice dipping closer to a whisper.

“Hm?” Jon responded intelligently. He felt a soft huff against his hair as Martin exhaled a laugh.

“Your dream, Jon.”

Jon hummed again, though more thoughtfully this time.

“No,” he eventually settled on. “No, I- it was something I’ve already reconciled with. Just an unfortunate reminder, I suppose.”

He felt Martin’s chest vibrate as he hummed his understanding, and Jon knew that’s where that string would end. It was something they came to learn quickly about each other; pushing a matter would more often than not just lead them in circles. Two stubborn men out stubborn-ing each other never would end gracefully.

“Did… did you want to talk about it?” Jon ventured, “Your dream?”

Martin let out a long, contemplative sigh. “No,” he said, echoing Jon’s sentiment. “Just standard Lonely stuff, nothing to really write home about.”

But if Jon’s previous experiences were anything to go by, it very well had the potential to be. The thought that the Lonely could still have its hooks in Martin this far away worried him more than anything.

“Do you feel alright now?” Jon asked, shifting a little. “I remember after a bad night you would get a little, ah. Foggy. At the safehouse – if you’ll excuse the term.”

Martin huffed an amused breath, “Right now I’m mostly just tired.”

Jon couldn't help but shrink in on himself a little. Was he fussing too much? He couldn't quite tell from Martin's tone; said with enough levity, but he also had a habit of brushing things off with a mask of humour. Maybe he was just tired.

“Right,” Jon said. “Sorry.”

The quiet that followed just about lulled Jon into a false sense of finality. It felt an odd place to leave off, but wracking his brain he couldn't come up with an excuse to speak again. His tongue felt thick in his mouth, and after enough moments had passed him by, he'd just about decided to let sleeping dogs lie, when he heard Martin open his mouth above him.

“But, um. Yeah, I feel okay. You know I’d tell you, if that ever changed.”

Jon exhaled. A weight felt as though it had lifted from his hallowed bones. He did know that, but hearing the words from Martin - it felt… better. He nodded.

“I know,” Jon said, then again, quieter, “I know.”

Martin tugged the blankets around them a little tighter as Jon’s hand pressed against the borrowed fabric of Martin’s sleep shirt, the gentle thump-thump, thump-thump of his heart a comforting beat against his palm.

“We’re gonna be okay, Jon.”

Jon couldn’t help it; a humourless laugh escaped him, “You really believe that, after everything?”

Martin shrugged a shoulder, “I don’t know. Call it a hunch.”

“I didn’t realise we were going off hunches now.”

“Yeah, well- if you can come up with something better, you just let me know.”

“I know that I love you,” the words slipped out easily under the cover of night, and he could hear the smile in Martin’s words when he uttered the same promise against Jon’s ear.

“I love you, too,” he said back, so certainly it still sent butterflies fluttering clumsily through Jon’s chest.

Sleep felt as though it could come easier then. He wasn’t sure he shared in Martin’s conviction - as well-meaning or embellished as it might have been - but it instilled a sense of calm within him. Whatever was ahead of them, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t have to go it alone.

How cliché, he thought to himself distantly as his eyes fell shut.

Chapter Text

Before long, four weeks had passed.

Though the definition of the word had become rather skewed for Jon and Martin in recent years, life had almost felt normal. Waking up to sun spooling in through the curtains in the mornings, making breakfast in a kitchen that consisted of more than just a microwave and a kettle. Watching movies, going on walks to the park, going on dates. Things had been…

Things had been good.

Jon had thought it would be hard to adjust to the kind of mundanity that came with it at first, but really it just reminded him more and more of the safehouse as the weeks went by.

It didn’t exactly take much to bring those memories bubbling gently to the surface these days, but he couldn’t help noticing the similarities. The way they’d slipped into domestic life so easily, how right it had felt. The only oddity being how strange it was existing outside of the fear-encrusted walls of the Institute.

Sasha was good about giving them their space, though it wasn’t like her presence wasn’t welcome. She’d readily opened her home to them and shown kindness where she could have so easily - and understandably - turned them away. Jon wasn’t sure they would ever pay back their gratitude.

But, like all good things, it came to its end.

No one had wanted to go back. They'd spoken at length about the possibilities of just… staying away. Soft quitting, as they'd started referring to it, since the real thing was so far out of reach by now.

But when Sasha had trudged from her room one unfortunate day, dark bruises under her eyes and complaining of a blistering headache, Jon had known then that it was already too late. Even he was starting to feel the draining effects of withdrawals.

So, one by one, they’d returned to the Institute.

Jon and Martin were the last pair of begrudging feet to step back into the building, much to the surprise of them both. The sense of urgency that hung over them like a dark cloud hadn’t felt so heavy in the weeks following Prentiss’ attack. Almost like they’d made it over that one, immense hurdle in their way, and now that they were on the other side, rest didn’t feel so undeserved.

It was a fool’s errand, though, they knew that. Prentiss had just been the beginning.

The building was quiet at this time of day. Though their presence here had been found out by one Elias Bouchard (something they had yet to really speak on or reap the consequences of just yet), the rest of the staff were still none the wiser, and they were set on keeping it that way. It almost felt like old times; Jon slinking through the Institute at the crack of dawn to avoid the prying eyes of his coworkers. The memory made him feel a bit ill.

As Jon and Martin rounded the corner to the stairs leading them to the basement, Jon faltered in his steps. The building itself had been cleaned from nook to cranny and, to the unwitting eye, looked as normal as any other day in the Archives, if a bit less dusty. But the ghosts of himself, Martin and Sasha barrelling up those stairs in a race for their lives played over and over in the recesses of his mind.

His limp hadn’t gone away either, not really. The echo of the worm digging itself into his flesh a still too-recent memory, the dull ache in his leg persistent and never really allowing him a moment’s peace. There was some twisted irony there somewhere, but he didn’t really want to think about it. He was just grateful that they were able to find a secondhand cane for cheap, which did the job just fine.

Martin must have noticed his hesitation, and squeezed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He rested his own hand on top, and squeezed back. 

They took each step one at a time, and as Jon’s foot hit the bottom step, the only warning he got was an exclamation of “there he is!” before a strong pair of arms wrapped his shoulders in a tight bundle, lifting him off the ground. His body went stiff as a board, a winded and confused “ah?!” the only sound he could muster, which just seemed to pull a hearty chuckle from his assailant.

Set back on his feet, Tim took a few steps back and settled for firm hands on Jon’s shoulders instead, holding him at arm's length. The toothy grin breaking over his expression was the brightest Jon had seen in a long time.

“You mad bastard,” Tim beamed at him.

“Tim,” Jon blurted intelligently, brain puttering to catch up, but his attention was caught. His eyes raked over Tim’s face, catching on every pitted scar and still-too-fresh bandage seeming to litter every part of exposed skin. The guilt surged within him. He looked even worse off than the Tim from his own world had, though his attitude couldn’t be more different. Jon blinked, then said, more confused, “Wait, what?”

Tim laughed, and he could hear Martin’s soft chuckle behind him.

“Sasha told me everything that happened,” Tim continued, and it started to finally click into place. “About how you saved her from that freaky thing in Artefact Storage. I’ve got to say, Boss; very impressed with your performance so far.”

Jon let out a surprised little laugh. He still wasn’t quite used to the reception of his actions not resulting in a screaming match. It was refreshing, if unexpected.

“Well, I hope this reflects well in my performance review,” he joked, then added, “I’m- I’m glad to see you’re well, Tim.”

“Oh yeah, well as I can be,” Tim said, and gave Martin a friendly clasp on the shoulder in way of greeting. “Same goes to you both, too. Bit of a close one, eh?”

Martin tittered a nervous little laugh. “Yeah,” he said, voice breaking over the syllable, but he powered on. “Close ones are what we’re good at, I guess.”

“Pah,” Tim waved a hand, meandering over to the assistants’ bullpen. “Don't be so reductive! You deserve a bit more credit than that. Now,” he said, scooting himself to sit on Other Martin’s desk, one knee crossed over the other. “Sasha told me everything that happened with you guys. How much did she spill about our part?”

Trailing after him, Jon and Martin glanced at each other. “Not much,” Martin admitted, sliding into his namesake’s chair. Jon opted to stand. “But I’m sure you’ll enlighten us.”

Tim snorted. “Obviously.” He puffed out his chest, hands in front of him as if ready to set the scene. His usual flair for the dramatic flavoured his tone. “When shit hit the fan, as you well know, we ran for the boiler room - just like you said to. But Prentiss cornered us pretty damn quick. There were so many worms, it was insane. I’ve never seen anything like it.

“They swarmed us, blocked every exit. Boss was in a bad way at that stage and Marto was doing his best to keep the worms off them both, and I was having the stare-down of my life with the worm bitch herself. All I had to defend myself was an empty bloody fire extinguisher. It didn't seem like any of us had even a sliver of a chance to make it to the boiler room to flip the switch.” 

Tim paused then, and something ever so small seemed to crack in that carefree facade he carried with his whole chest. Jon could feel it - he'd been scared. Maybe more scared than he'd ever been in his life, and it bled through, evident even under the thick layers of blasé attitude and quick wit he coated every word with.

“I really thought we were done for,” he continued, his voice shaking with a laugh that masked his nerves. “But then, by some miracle, something drew her attention away just long enough for me to slip past and hit the damn thing. And let me tell you - that thing was like a kill switch. I barely had time to blink before everything just started screaming. We ran for our lives after that and bumped into Sasha along the way. And, well- I think you know the rest from there.”

“Bloody hell, Tim,” Martin breathed beside him.

Tim waved him off. “It’s fine. I’m here, aren’t I? Besides,” he preened, “I think I wear the scars quite nicely.”

It was intended as a joke, he knew that. Silly and light-hearted and such a Tim thing to say to try and ease the tension. But Jon couldn’t help the way his palms prickled. The way his chest seemed to tighten around his ribs like a vice. Everyone kept reminding him; at least we made it out alive. But the scars still showed. The hurt was still there. Trauma still relished in its grip on every person whose life he seemed to brush against and care about even a little bit over and over again. The kind of ache that came with watching the same scene play out in different shades of red felt so heavy in his bones.

Oh what a burden to bear, that your friends are still alive, he thought bitterly to himself, and shook himself out of his head.

“A miracle indeed,” Jon said, forcing some levity into his voice. “I think we all would have been in a bit of trouble if you hadn’t managed the switch when you did.”

Tim began making some offhand comment, Jon didn't really hear it. His attention had been caught by Martin, whose expression had turned hard and focused in that way it often did when he was hard at work cracking a particularly stubborn riddle. "Martin?" Jon prompted, which seemed to pull Martin back from his tangle of thoughts.

“Sorry. Uh- Tim, you said something drew Prentiss away? You don’t know what?”

Tim gave him an odd look, but shook his head. “No clue, mate.”

Martin nodded slowly. “Jon,” he said in that tentative tone that Jon didn’t particularly like. Jon simply raised an eyebrow for Martin to continue, and he did: “That was just after you went all,” Martin motioned vaguely with his hands, “You know. Archivist-y.”

Jon had loaded the scoff of his life in response to Archivist-y when it actually sunk in what Martin was getting at. “Oh,” he said, faltering. “What, you think I drew her away?”

When Martin didn't respond with words, just gave him a look, Tim glanced between them, eyes glimmering with something not unlike awe as he caught on. “Seriously?” he said, quite literally on the edge of his seat. “You think the stunt you pulled with the Artefact monster did Prentiss in too?”

“Well, I mean-” Jon began to protest, but Martin cut him off.

“Well- yeah? Based on our conversation with Annabelle the Avatars know where you live now Cane, I don't think it's that hard to believe.”

Jon sagged in on himself. It wasn't… so far-fetched. “No, I uh. I suppose not.”

“Annabelle was… the mysterious phone call, right?” Tim asked, and when they both nodded, he continued, “Yeah, Sash mentioned that, too. She didn’t go into much detail? Said she didn’t really understand it so she didn’t want to speak for you guys, so that might be something to bring up at the next HR meeting.” 

Jon couldn't help it; he heaved a long sigh. “Yes, I do believe another discussion is in order. Is everyone else in yet?”

Tim nodded. “Yeah, Sash and Martin are getting breakfast. Jon’s in his office, but I think he’s still taking that woman’s statement. Feisty one, that.”

Jon winced. He admittedly hadn’t had much of an opportunity to talk about the consequences of taking live statements with his counterpart, what with all the worm business going on until late. All the more reason they needed to talk, he supposed.

As if on cue, a muffled bang sounded from the direction of Other Jon’s office, and all three of their heads whipped around to look. The blare of an incensed argument rose up behind it, and the more Jon strained his ears, the more familiar the voice opposing his own became. It sounded just like…

Surely not.

Was that-

The door to Other Jon’s office slammed open, the wood almost splintering against the wall as it hit. The individual that followed could only be described as fuming as she jabbed a vicious finger back into the office, her voice carrying much louder now that the door was no longer an obstacle.

“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to come back here! Fuck your pompous bloody library, I can figure it out on my own.”

She whirled around, likely with the intention of continuing her rampage out of the Archives, but stopped dead in her tracks as she almost collided face-to-face with Jon.

She stared at him, recognition turning to confusion turning to something else entirely that her expression couldn’t quite articulate, before Jon sputtered, aghast:

“Melanie?”

Chapter Text

Jon knew as soon as Melanie’s name left his lips that he’d fucked up.

Melanie stared at him, a unique kind of puzzlement passing over her features. Though her mouth often ran wild like a freight train, it had always been hard to tell what exactly Melanie was thinking when she went quiet, and now was no exception. Whether Jon was about to get chewed to pieces or they were going to continue looking at each other like a pair of round-eyed goldfish was hard to say, until Melanie stole a passing glance over her shoulder at Other Jon - who, despite his complexion, had gone pale as a ghost - before her eyes settled back on Jon himself.

Some type of recognition seemed to spark as she looked him up and down. “Wow, some strong genetics in the Sims family. Do you watch the show?”

Jon just barely stopped himself blowing all the air from his lungs. Seemed like he might still be able to worm his way out of this one.

“Uh. Y- yes! Yes, big fan,” he said stiltedly, clasping his hands in front of himself in an, admittedly, awkward attempt to sell his wired nerves as mere excitement.

Melanie’s eyes narrowed at him, just a bit.

Jon swallowed. Unfortunately, he never was very good at lying.

“Okay, what is this? Has Sims been talking about me behind my back?”

Shit.

He could feel the heat coming off her already. Jon held his hands up placatingly, “No, Melanie-” he’d started to say, but she cut him off, moving uncomfortably close into his space. He could see both Martin and Tim straighten up at that moment, and was quietly grateful this altercation wasn’t happening behind closed doors. 

“Then how do you know my name?” Melanie demanded, “I swear, if this is some sort of- of prank I'm going to-”

“It's not a prank!’ Jon cut in quickly, ”For Christ's sake, do I seem like the type to partake in pranks ?”

“How the hell should I know?! I've never met you before!”

There was a beat of awful silence as Melanie glowered at him, anger and confusion swirling together to create something far worse, before she growled, “Fuck this.”

With a huff she began to storm off, shoulder-checking Jon on her way through, and panic sparked in his bones. He couldn’t let her leave, not with the knowledge of everything that had happened to the Melanie he’d once known.

Jon cursed under his breath before turning and calling after her, “Melanie wait-”

“Nope!” she called back, quickening her steps, “Fuck you, and fuck this place. I'm never coming back here.”

Jon’s mouth moved before he could think better of it: “You're planning on going to India, right?”

Melanie stopped dead in her tracks. She turned slowly, something icy and cutting in the way she looked at him, “What did you just say to me? Were you listening -!?”

“I wasn't listening!” he was quick to assure her, palms up as if to put on show that he had nothing to hide.

“It's true, he just got here,” Tim piped up, which only really garnered a sneer from Melanie and didn’t seem to do much to calm things, but Jon appreciated the back up nonetheless. 

“Then what?” she snipped, her attention back on Jon. “What do you want?”

Jon was scrambling for the right thing to say. He could feel his tenuous grip on this interaction slipping quicker than he could keep up. There had to be something he could say - some olive branch of understanding he could extend to salvage this, even just a little. Mind racing, he settled on; “You believe in the supernatural, right?”

She scoffed, “You're not about to tell me you're a ghost or something , are you?”

He actually laughed. He couldn't help it. One loud, explosive “hah!” from deep within his chest as the ridiculousness of it all finally pierced its bubble. Or maybe he was just finally losing it. Both things could be true, he supposed.

“No. Lord, no. It’s far more outrageous, I’m afraid.” When Melanie crossed her arms, making no move to disengage, he knew he’d got her. He took a breath.

“I’m, uh. I’m him,” he said, pointing to the other, very fish-out-of-water looking, Jonathan Sims, “But from somewhere else.”

Melanie looked at him for a very long time before she deadpanned, “You can’t be serious.”

It was Jon’s turn to scoff. “Yes, unfortunately I’m very serious. I knew you - another you. You went to India after Ghost Hunt UK broke up because you wanted to continue with your own investigations into the paranormal. You had an encounter with a ‘war ghost’, as you called them, and you were shot. The doctors couldn’t find the bullet so it was left lodged in your leg, and...” he paused, considering his next words. “You got sick. And you ended up trapped here at the Institute with the rest of us.” 

The prolonged pause just about brought back the twist of anxiety to his insides as he waited for her to say something. He couldn’t place why, but he so desperately wanted Melanie to understand. He wanted her on their side.

Maybe it was just some twisted attempt at redemption. He’d fucked up so badly with Melanie before, perhaps a part of him thought that, if he could save this Melanie from the pain and heartache she’d gone through in another life, then maybe the heaviness that weighed on his conscience could be lifted, even just a bit.

It felt oddly selfish, but his internal monologue never did make much sense these days.

Melanie simply stared at him, her mouth slightly agape and a crinkle to her nose; an expression he’d rarely seen her make. He’d left her stumped.

“Are you all hearing this?” she asked eventually, now directing the question to the group at large who, up until this point, had barely uttered a word - much to Jon’s simultaneous frustration and gratitude.

Tim snorted at this, which just seemed to dumbfound Melanie even more. “Yeah, I think having a second, war-hardened version of our boss from another timeline and his bear of a boyfriend might have won ‘weirdest thing that’s happened in the Archives’ this year.”

A sound choked its way from Melanie’s throat. Tim seemed rather proud of himself.

“You believe him?”

“Believe it, and currently living in it,” Tim said with an awfully tacky finger-gun, to which Jon would have chided him for it had he not been so grateful.

“We get how hard it is to believe, trust me,” Martin added, “But is parallel universes really so crazy considering all the weird stuff you would’ve already seen?”

“Stop saying shit like that,” Melanie retorted, but it was starting to become very clear that any steam left in her system was quickly fading.

“I’m sorry, Melanie,” Jon said, and he did mean it. She wasn’t taking the news quite in stride like the rest of them had, and he was now realising they might actually just be freaking her out. He took a breath, changing gears. “Look, whatever research you need to do, do it in the library - I can make that happen. Hell, I can help, if you'll have me. Just- just don't go to India. Please.”

She looked at him for a long, quiet moment, and Jon all but held his breath. Her eyes seemed to be searching his for something deeper, something hidden. Something malicious, perhaps.

But Jon never was very good at lying.

So, when he saw something in her expression soften, the tightness at his core loosened with it. Whatever she was looking for, it appeared she hadn’t found it. Finally, her gaze cut away from his.

“Get me access to the library,” she said tightly, “Then maybe I’ll consider it.”

Jon had barely uttered his affirmation of “of course” before she was turning, and Melanie was gone without another word.

A beat passed, and the relief that suffused around the room was palpable. Jon pressed a palm to his temple; whether the headache was from the lack of sleep or the hurricane known as Melanie King, he couldn’t say. “That could have gone better,” he muttered under his breath.

Martin made an indecisive noise in his throat. “I actually think that went about as well as it could have, all things considered.” 

“Was she always that feisty?” Tim asked, to which Jon breathed out a laugh.

“Yes, and unfortunately it only got worse,” Jon said. Tim blew out a low whistle, which pretty much summed it up.

“What the bloody hell were you two arguing about, anyway?” Martin asked, and Jon glanced up to see the question wasn’t directed at him.

In the chaos of the moment, Other Jon had finally stood from his desk and appeared to be tidying up a smattering of papers that had likely been caught in the crossfire of their earlier disagreement. He’d glanced up, mid-crouch, and was eyeing Martin like a deer in the headlights. Clearing his throat he straightened, and adjusted his glasses with a particular fretful motion that Jon immediately clocked as nerves.

“I hope you’re not insinuating that I started that whole fiasco-”

“I don't care who started it, but I also know better than anyone how frustratingly argumentative and opinionated you can be.”

Other Jon looked like he wanted to argue, but quickly realised that would only prove Martin’s point. He sighed slightly, tapping the papers he’d picked up into place in his hands. “She was telling me about the research she wanted to do regarding the events of her statement, and- Well. I might have inferred that we only carry research and studies on legitimate subjects.”

Martin groaned. “You can't be serious. After everything, you're still playing the sceptic card on ghosts of all things?”

“Well, I mean-” Jon interjected. “We don't… actually know if capital-G “Ghosts” as we know them are in fact real-”

“Oh my god.”

“Proof of ghosts notwithstanding,” Other Jon continued on, setting the stack of papers down and resting a hip against his desk, “She wanted access to the Institute’s library, and that’s not something we give out to just anyone who isn’t a student of an established university. We have a reputation to uphold.” 

He was silent for a moment.

“I also just… don’t particularly like her all that much.”

“Mm, petty,” Tim mused. “Never took you for the type.”

“Yes, well,” Other Jon said dismissively, “Call it what you want, but she isn’t the type of person I would want traipsing around the Institute unsupervised.”

“Well, with any luck, she won’t be back,” Jon said. He could still so clearly remember the images the Eye had granted him unbidden of her butchered eye-sockets the first time he’d seen her with the bandages, the way the Slaughter had pumped its unbridled anger and hatred through the bullet lodged in her leg…

She should be so lucky to never see this place again.

Other Jon simply hummed his agreement, and Jon could tell just by the look in his eye that he didn’t quite echo the same sentiment. He could argue it later.

There was something else gnawing at him.

“Elias saw us. During Prentiss’ attack,” he said plainly. When no one reacted with aggrieved shock or horror like he'd half expected, his suspicions that that information had already made its rounds, courtesy of one Sasha James, was confirmed.

The silence dragged on for a beat too long.

“Yes,” Other Jon said eventually, crossing his arms, “And he hasn’t said a word about it.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Martin echoed, his nose crinkling in surprise. “Seriously?”

Other Jon nodded. “He’s barely said anything of merit to any of us since we came back to work. I worry for what that means exactly.”

“I always knew he was a weird dude, but this is just next level spooky shit,” Tim said; a unanimously agreed upon statement. “Aren’t super villains supposed to have some sort of evil monologue to tell us all about their conniving plans?”

“I’m sure it’s coming,” Jon muttered with a roll of his eyes, as though Elias’ previous evil monologues were no more than a simple inconvenience. Tim seemed tickled by the idea.

Other Jon uttered something else, to which Tim seemed to give him shit for if the tone was anything to go by, but Jon wasn’t really paying much attention to the words anymore. Something tugged at the borders of his awareness, and when he zeroed in on it, the Eye very conveniently airdropped a piece of information directly into his brain.

“Martin and Sasha are back,” he said, almost on autopilot. Whatever gentle bickering had broken out suddenly stopped, and they all looked at him.

“How do you know?” Tim asked, squinting at him conspiratorially.

Jon could only give him his best version of an innocent smile, though it wobbled at its edges. “I just do?” he ventured.

Tim stared at him for a long, long moment, before he seemed to come to some kind of conclusion. He nodded. “Creepy. I like it.”

Other Jon pushed himself from his desk and shouldered his way through their small gathering at his door. ”We’ll meet them in the bullpen, then. I need to get out of this office, anyway.”

Not a breath of argument, which he was sure Other Jon was quietly grateful for. A spat like that would have left him on edge, too. 

As Jon turned to follow, he felt something nudge at his ribs, and glanced up to find Tim looking at him with his signature, shit-eating grin. “‘I can make that happen’? Is that right, big man?”

Jon felt his face flush. That part had just slipped out in the heat of the moment. To be so bold in a statement when this wasn’t even his institute - well, that was a little embarrassing.

“Shut up, Tim,” he grumbled.