Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He could hear them, squirming and twisting against the door, their pale silver bodies oozing over the floor, under the cracks that had long since been blotted of light. He huddled against the wall, trying to stop his breath from hitching in his throat as he watched them squirm out into the hall, darkened heads raising to find him.

There was another presence, standing, watching, and he could almost feel the terror, the panic, dripping out of them and oozing along the floor, polluting the very space. What was he doing here? They seemed to ask, He’d never shown up before, why now, after everything?

He raised his head, looking over to them, to that shadow, recognisable yet not, face frozen in an expression of horrified realisation, hundreds of eyes twisting and looking frantically around. They wanted to weep, to cry out and run to him, drag him tightly and wait out what was sure to come, but all they could do was watch.

He smiled, trying to hide his own fear, knowing they were there, that they needed as much comfort as him. He had only a small amount of control, he knew that much, but he still had some.

The worms came closer, and he heard the choking, hacking sound of someone trying to speak beyond the door, as several clear knocks peeled out over the corridor. The worst was yet to come. The terror was not yet strong enough.

He felt the tickle against his leg, the burn of pain as they began to burrow into soft flesh, but he tried not to flinch, tried to stay strong. He kept his gaze locked with his petrified observer, trying to tell them that he didn’t blame them, that they didn’t know, they couldn’t have known.

Didn’t make the terror any less potent.

Chapter Text

Jonathan sighed quietly to himself, carefully scanning over the records to see if anything was out of place. It was quiet, monotonous work, the kind that let his mind wander, spin off and let things slip in, though he’d long stopped paying attention to the little knowledge that dripped through into his skull. He still felt practically blind, after being able to dive into oceans of knowledge at a whim, with no repercussions, and now had that freedom locked safely behind the door, only letting things seep through.

Of course he had known that working as a museum archivist would be different to the archivist position at an academic institute like the Magnus Institute, he just wasn’t quite prepared for it. Maybe it was dropping from Head Archivist, to simply being one of the assistants, just organising files, or keeping tabs on artefacts, compared to running the whole show and calling the shots.

Or maybe he just missed the prescient overbearing fear that loomed over his shoulder at every waking second, promising death, doom and downfall at every turn.

He genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.

He supposed it was still there, but it was muted, dulled. Weak. He supposed he could suspect as much. Nobody would try any ritual with the Eye as its focus for a good long while. And he found solace in that fact.

What he couldn’t find any solace in was the constant hunger that gnawed at his soul at his every waking moment. He’d done his best to sate it, to not lose himself to it, he and Martin clawing up strange stories from every public forum, internet post, public law claim, anything that they could even consider being related to one of the Powers. It had been a bit touch-and-go, but they had managed.

And, from what information they’d managed to trawl up, the Powers had come into the world staggered, one major one coming in every few years, from the Web in the early eighteen hundreds, to the Eye just now, with the next most recent being the Lonely as far as they could tell, almost ten years prior.

Jonathan found that there was something oddly bittersweet about that, though he could never place why.

Ah, Curtis was coming into the room.

And as if on cue, he did.

He was one of the youngest archivist, or archival assistants more accurately, being in his mid-twenties. He had sandy blonde hair, a round, boy-ish face, and a smile that made his ice blue eyes light up. He was a couple inches taller than Jonathan, but that was never much of an achievement.

“Hey old man,” he said, with a smile, “Doing the gruelling work of checking for mis-files.”

Jonathan snorted dryly, still flipping through sheets.

“It’s important, can’t have Meritt breathing down my neck because I accidentally put something from the early eighteen-hundreds in the late middle ages.”

“Ooo, yeah, Meritt does not like you, does he?” Curtis said, leaning up against one of the cabinets, “Giving you the most mind-numbing jobs, standing at your shoulder while you write notes… man needs to take a break, you know?”

“It’s not all bad.” Jonathan said, “This kind of thing gives me plenty of time to think.”

“Yeah, about what?”

“How pointless we all are in the grand scheme of things, is God actually real or has He abandoned us, what am I going to get for lunch, that kind of thing.”

Curtis laughed.

“God, sometimes you are hilarious, man.”

“I am?”

“I mean, when you’re not staring ominously off into space or avoiding all of us.”

Jonathan snorted quietly, and turned his eyes down to his work. He felt a strange, invisible wall between him and the others, not just him keeping himself away from them to protect them from him, but that veil of blissful ignorance that they had, something he could never truly return to. To only know what he was readily available, or he was told.

It felt better to not communicate, not risk him learning things he didn’t want, or need, to know.

“Eh, either way, Meritt does need to give you a break, man makes it very clear he hates you.”

“What can I do about it?” Jonathan sighed, “It’s not like he’ll listen to me.”

“Yeah,” Curtis said, “I mean, I guess he’s just like that, old man, stuck in his ways.”

Jonathan chuckled quietly.

“I suppose he is, but still, nothing I can do about it.”

“Yeah,” Curtis said, leaning absently against one of the filing cabinets.

“What are you here for, anyways?” Jonathan said, turning to look at him.

“Oh, shoot, what was I in here for?” Curtis said, looking around.

“Meritt wanted you to look through the files about objects from the fifteen hundreds, which should be… over there.” Jonathan said, the knowledge flowing quickly off his tongue as he gestured vaguely behind him.

“Right, yeah,” Curtis said, turning to the shelves and beginning to flick through them, “And how do you do that by the way?”

“Do what?”

“Just, knowing stuff,” Curtis said, “You always seem to know so much about everything.”

“I’m, very observant,” Jonathan said, “Pick things up.”

“Hm, alright.” Curtis said, “Just sometimes it seems like you’re spying on us, with how much you seem to know.”

“I am not.” Jonathan said, looking over his shoulder.

“Not accusing you of anything, just saying.” Curtis chuckled, “I mean, means that you know what the hell’s going on, so I can’t complain.”

Jonathan nodded, making a noise of agreement, turning back to his work.

“So, you doing anything interesting this weekend?” Curtis said, looking over his shoulder.

“Mm, probably not.” Jonathan said, “Maybe go out with Martin? It’s been a while since we’ve properly gone out together.”

“Martin? Whose Martin?”

“Have I not talked about him?” Jonathan said, looking over to Curtis. He was 8o% sure he’d used going out with Martin as some excuse at somepoint.

“Nope.” Curtis said, “Can’t remember it, anyways.”

“Well, he’s my boyfriend.”

Curtis stopped, looking over his shoulder in surprise, before seeing Jonathan wasn’t joking, and laughing in quiet disbelief.

“Well, colour me surprised, here I was thinking you were single, but noooo you’ve got a boyfriend tucked away somewhere. ‘The hell you manage that?”

“What’s that supposed to me?”

“Oh, I just- You don’t seem like the kind of guy who could reasonably pull someone, you’re too, I don’t know, closed off.”

“Thank-you for that brilliant observation. And hey Areinne.”

Areinne, one of the more senior members of the Archival team, stood at the door, peering in at the two of them.

“What were you two talking about that has Curt in such a tizzy?” she eventually asked, a sly grin on her lips.

Areinne was a few years older than Jonathan, with dark, curly hair shot through with silver, and a face with many laugh and smile lines. She dressed mostly in muted, tan colours, and rarely ever deviated from it.

“Okay,” Curtis said, “So, we have our delightful new hire here, I was under the impression he was single. Nope.”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Areinne said, “The rest of us have known that Jon is a taken man for a very long time.”

“ Really ,” Curtis said, “Because I swear, nobody told me.”

“Yeah,” Areinne said, “Can’t help that you’re completely oblivious.”

“Apparently,” Curtis muttered.

“Speaking of, how is he?” Areinne said, looking over to Jonathan.

“Oh, he’s alright,” Jonathan said, with a shrug, “Could be worse.”

“Cool,” Areinne said, “Either way, do you mind helping me with something?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah I can.” Jonathan said, offering a sheepish grin to Curtis.

He returned it, before turning back to his own work.

Jonathan trailed out after Arienne, nervously wringing his hands as he went. He knew she meant well, but there was always that nagging fear in the back of his mind that though there was some malicious edge to her, this whole place.

He was probably wrong, he’d gotten no concrete information confirming it. Didn’t stop him from keeping his guard up, just in case.

“Alright,” Areinne said, as they arrived at her desk, “So, you know that translation of a German text you produced last month?”

“Vaguely,” Jonathan said, “The poem about the man stuck in the endless house, right?”

“Yes, that one.” Areinne said, as she carefully slid an old journal, the paper thin and yellow, across her desk, “Now, I was told to translate this, but I really only know enough German to stumble through a conversation, even less so this kind of German. So I was thinking you could help me.”

“Right,” Jonathan said, peering down at the document, and letting his eyes rove over the page. His eyes fell on der Jäger - the Hunter, and as it flicked along the rest of the sentence, he felt the words rise in his throat, and quickly tore himself away.

“I should be able to, yes.” he eventually said, looking up to Areinne, “You mind if I- uh, take this back to my desk? I just, tend to work better alone.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Areinne said, “Honestly, I don’t care, you’re the only other person that knows German since Sandy’s still off sick.”

“Mhm,” Jonathan said, carefully gathering the book.

“Alright, good luck.” Areinne said, “Come back here when you’re finished.”

Jonathan nodded, giving the ghost of a smile, before he wandered off towards his desk, or the supply cupboard that was right next to it. He’d found it was, surprisingly soundproofed. And it locked, which was a plus.

Once he was inside, he turned on the light, which shed its dull yellow glow over the room, made sure his phone was on and recording, took a deep breath, and began to read.

Chapter Text

“ October 4th, 1896

“ I hope the shaking of my hands does not make this unreadable when I look back over it later, but I must write down the events that have transpired over the past few hours, and hope that the wolves do not find me.

“I arrived in Salzburg early this morning, before the sun had even broken, in a small village, where my host Klaus greeted me. He was a bit bemused at me arriving so early, but he was happy to invite me inside to get some rest before breakfast, so I took up on his offer, where I got around an hour’s rest before rising again to head down, where Klaus had prepared us a simple breakfast of bread, cheese and a selection of salted meats, apparently from the local butchers.

“ Over breakfast, we discussed my reason for being there. I explained my position as a civil servant, and the fact that I am here to collect the details of everyone in this small village, and many of the other villages. Of course, that is of little importance, so I shall move on to the events that I must transcribe.

“ After the sun had fully risen, I set out to gather the information I came here for. There were maybe a hundred people in this village, scattered across maybe fifty or so households. Most of them seemed unremarkable, but soon I found myself heading along a winding road, deeper into the forest.

“ I was told that there was someone who lived in a hut at the end of the road, someone the locals only referred to as der Jäger - The Hunter.

“ I was obviously intrigued by this, and of course, as my job indicated, I had to go gather more information about this mysterious hunter.

“ The journey to his small hut was tense. The trees grew up suddenly on the northern side of the village, their branches tangled together in a thick curtain. Even in the mid-morning light that forest was pitch dark, and the path no better, if only for whatever light dripped down from over the treetops.

“ I did eventually get to the cabin of der Jäger, a loathsome thing of black stained wood, squatting in a clearing choked through with brambles and other such briar. Upon closer inspection, I noticed the clearing was filled with rusted cages, and within those cages was maybe twenty to thirty wolves, or perhaps large dogs, all of varying colour and size. Each was staring out of their cages, a hungry look in their multi-coloured eyes, and their heads turned slowly as I passed, making no sound as they did, though the saliva dripping from some of their mouths was evident.

“ I approached the door of the little cabin, and noted the collection of animal skulls scattered in the awning before it - deer, boar, even a few wolf or fox skulls, picked clean of flesh and packed in amongst pelts of the same kind. I guessed that that was how this Hunter got his living, selling these pelts and bones to prospective collectors. Either way, I politely knocked on the door, and stood back to wait.

“ Soon, the door was opened by a tall man, who seemed to crouch in the frame. He was a strange person to behold, with a ruggish cast, a wild silver beard and silver hair left long and wild down by his shoulders. His clothes were dirty, streaked with grass and mud, with several ragged tears and holes in the cloth, though it looked to maybe have once been a nice hunting jacket.

“ ‘What do you want?’ he said to me, in a voice that sounded almost like the low growl of an animal, booming off the insides of his chest and rising through to his throat.

“ I of course listed my reasons for being there, and the man narrowed his eyes. There was something not quite right in those eyes, as if there was no longer any human thought behind them, only the cold calculations of a killer.

“ I shook aside those assertions and waited for his response, he eventually introduced himself as Mattis Blau, and said he was a hunter, as I expected. I asked him how he made his money, and Mattis scowled at me, and it was almost like looking at a snarling wolf or dog.

“ ‘Why don’t you come inside, Herr Baier?’ he asked eventually, stepping aside to let me into the cabin. I had not noticed that I hadn’t, at that point, introduced myself, so I accepted the offer. I supposed that for someone like him, money must be a complicated matter and would need a proper introduction.

“ I found that the cabin appeared to only have two rooms. One that was clearly the place where Mattis lived, with a bed and a chair arranged around a cold fireplace. The place was covered in skulls, some of which I, to my growing disquiet, appeared to be human, some with clear wounds breaking the smooth bone. And over it all was the sickly, metallic scent of blood.

“ I didn’t think much of that, as if he was a hunter, he certainly would have butchered carcasses. That’s when he gestured for me to open the door to the other room. Which I did.

“ The room beyond was a massacre, with several unrecognisable bodies slumped in corners, flesh chewed and peeled away by a hundred hungry jaws. One of which appeared to be that of a human, so disfigured as to make it impossible for their features to be identifiable. I pride my constitution at that moment, as I turned to look at Mattis, who was standing, silhouetted in the dim light coming from the doorway, his eyes a flame even in the gloom.

“ Now I saw what he was, the hunched over form of an animal pretending to be human, his limbs long and awkward at his sides, his fingers sharp as talons, and his teeth, now dripping with saliva, sharp as fangs. This was not a man, this was a lycanthrope, and I knew it.

“ ‘Can you hear them?’ he asked, ‘The pack, baying for your blood?’

“ And I did, the sick howls of those wolves outside, their desperate barks and bays as they paced in their cages outside. It had risen to a desperate crescendo now, and I knew that they wanted me.

“ ‘I would suggest you start running.’ Mattis said, with a horrible smile, and pointed towards the window with one of its long, horrible fingers.

“ And so I did, turning to kick open the window and scramble out, collapsing a patch of bramble on the other side, before pulling myself through, my clothes now ragged and bloody. Once I was free, I began to run into the black forest, branches wiping and snapping against my face.

“ I made the grave mistake of looking over my shoulder, and saw Mattis standing amongst the brambles, surrounded by those wolves, before it threw back its head and gave a horrible wailing howl, which the pack joined in on, the sound sending my nerves on end as it echoed out over the trees.

“ I knew that thing was as much a part of the pack as any one of those wolves, and soon, they were lunging forwards on all fours, baying and snapping as they ran towards me.

“ A terror like no other was struck into my heart, and I ran as fast as I could through the forests, branches whipping at my face and sides as I tumbled on through the darkness. I could hear those foul beasts at my heels, their desperate cries, the almost human sounds of the leader, the thing that claimed to be Mattis Blau. I feared that any mis-placed steps would be my doom, that I would fall under those snapping fangs and scrabbling claws. Be the meal for this unholy congregation.

“ Somehow, I burst out to the edge of the lake the town was on, and remembering something of how dogs could not track prey that had ended up in water, I flung myself into it, and dived under the surface.

“ I do not know for how long I swam, but soon, I found myself scrambling onto the docks of that village and stumbling back to Klaus’ home. He was shocked why I arrived at his door, dripping water and perspiration, and I in a haze of terror, told him of what had happened. I saw the colour drain from his face, and he told me to go change into fresh clothes, gather my things, and he would send me on my way. He spoke of not letting ‘prey’ into his house, and was sorry for my plight, but he could no longer shelter me.

“ I did as I was told, and soon, a carriage was there to pick me up, to send me back to Vienna as swiftly as they could. I sit in that carriage now, keeping my eyes on the road behind me. Is it just me, or can I hear the howl of wolves echoing on the breeze? Or that horrible, human-ish scream that comes with it. I am still being hunted, and I know it.

“ I can only hope that I am not found and caught by whatever it was that claimed to be Mattias Blau. ”

Jonathan finished, taking a shaky breath.

The last few pages of the journal were blank, and stained thickly with a dark, brownish substance. Blood. Silas Baier had been found a week after this, a few miles from Vienna, mutilated beyond recognition. His death had been deemed an animal attack, and the journal the only intact thing found with his body. It had then vanished.

Now here it was.

Jonathan eased the book shut, picked up his phone, and unlocked the door, stepping back out into the Archives.

Chapter Text

Jonathan spent the next hour or so doing his best to transcribe the recording, which was, as always, distorted and unusable for most listening enjoyment, but he’d long learnt to struggle through it. He and Martin had yet to find a decent tape recorder that was within their budget, and digital recordings didn’t completely corrupt, only distorted the more times you listened to them.

It was enough, of course, to be able to write a transcript for his translation, writing one copy in his personal notebook, and typing up the one for the official archive. After he had finished the transcript, double and triple checked it, he turned to translating the rest of the book. He did not speak a bit of German, but it made no difference, the words seemed to shift under his gaze, their individual meanings clear and stark, as if he was reading the page in English.

Eventually, he did have everything, carefully gathered the journal, and returned to where Arienne was sitting, carefully pouring over some other old text.

“Got that translation done for you.” Jonathan said, carefully placing the book down.

“Oh, thank-you,” Arienne said, “Honestly Jon, you’re a life-saver sometimes.”

I’m really not. “Well, it’s the least I can do.” Jonathan said, with a slight smile, “I haven’t exactly been getting thrilling work, so whatever I can do to help.”

“Hm, fair enough.” Arienne said, “But hey, if you ever need something to do, I’m sure there’s several untranslated documents you could have a look through.”

The thought of that made Jonathan very aware of the dull ache at the base of his chest, the hunger that still constantly burnt in him, even when it had been recently fed. And the thought of their maybe being more in the archives, more tales that would help him pin everything into place- No. He had just read one, he needed to properly digest it before turning to the next. Pace himself. Otherwise he’d run out faster, and have to turn to live feedings again, even if he didn’t want to.

“Well, either way, thanks for the help.” Areinne said, “You could probably head home if you’ve got nothing else to do.”

“Yeah,” Jonathan said, the thought of going home filling him with an immense sense of relief, “I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, I wish you well.” Areinne said, “And see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” Jonathan said, before walking back to his desk to collect his things. He never really brought much, most of his pens lived in the small drawer under his desk, and he really only had his notebook and lunch to take anywhere.

Either way, he slid one of his earbuds in, made sure the music he was listening to was at an acceptable volume, and made his way out of the archives, then the museum and onto the streets beyond. Which, as evening rush hour was in its full swing, was bustling with people.

He kept his head down as he walked, tried not to catch people by the eye, stopped any information that would no doubt flow into his mind without his want for it. He still missed the time when he had control of it, even if he knew exactly what that would mean for the world. It was horribly selfish of him, but it was certainly true.

Even so, he did still gets things. The lady he accidentally bumped with his shoulder as he went past was a crochet champion, the tired old man waiting by the traffic lights had once eaten snake and found it quite enjoyable, one of the young couple that passed by him as he headed into the Underground regularly skydived. It was little things, nothing massive, just things he caught in passing, no matter how overwhelming it could be.

Even through it all, he kept his focus on a few things. The light above the crossing, the steady beat of his feet on the pavement, the soft, almost mournful music he’d come to listen to. Little anchor points to stop him being thrown adrift in the crowd of people, and the steady trickle of knowledge that came with it.

He knew the way to the station well enough, the route carved into his mind from being run over time and time again, and he knew exactly when the tube he was to catch would arrive, how long it would take to get him to the station closest to his flat, and then how long to get there from the station. It was a now well worn routine that he stuck to, day in, day out. Another little anchor point.

The tube arrived, as it always did, at exactly 17:01, and Jonathan waited for everyone else to file out before stepping on, and filing to where he knew a seat was open and settling down, shifting his satchel to sit in his lap and turning to look at the long line of adverts in the space above the windows, his eyes sliding off their bright colours and pleasing layouts, picking out words and phrases. Adverts for local universities, events in the community, various online stores and venues, but little really caught his interest.

Still here, things slipped through. The woman standing nervously with a suitcase and a backpack by the door had just arrived in England looking for work, the man with the greying hair and dark shades third cousin once-removed was a rising singer-songwriter, the tired woman corralling her noisy toddler did slam poetry in her free time, and the bored looking student with dark hair and eyes done with smokey makeup was called Mortimer.

Jonathan turned his gaze to the window, to the darkness behind it, and then to the reflection that stared back. The tired, gaunt face with skin peppered with round, faded scars, the sharp, brown eyes that weren’t quite bright enough to be considered amber, and didn’t have any of the flecks of other colours to render them hazel, that looked from behind the thin, steel-framed glasses that he didn’t really need, but wore anyways, the dark, silver stroked hair that was half pulled back into a bun at the base of his skull, half left to fall around shoulders in a messy curtain.

It could only be him, but sometimes he found he couldn’t recognise it. Were there supposed to be more eyes, brilliant green, unblinking and staring from their glossy black cases, was it even a person that should be staring back, as monstrous and inhuman as he was now. He still bled, he could still hurt, but wounds closed within the hour, leaving either no mark, or the faintest scar.

The train arrived at his station, and he got off, travelling back to the surface, relishing the late afternoon air, before turning his feet and walking the next familiar path to his flat, one of many in a crumbling building. The stairs up were rickety, and the carpet was stained with damp, and a few dark splotches that had once been blood from someone falling and dying on them, which had never properly come out. Their flat had been little better, the walls filled with black mould so they had to flood the place with bleach twice, the electricity faulty, and the walls paper-thin, but it was home. The heating worked fine, it was within their budget, and it was safe.

He pushed open the door, dull green with the paint peeling, and stepped into the hall, dusting his boots off on the doormat, before carefully slipping them off and stowing them safely away.

“I’m home!” he called, though the sound of the door would have announced his presence well enough.

Martin was waiting for him, leaning against the door to the living room, a pleasant, if slightly tired smile on his face.

“Good day?”

“It was alright.” Jon said, as they walked over and wrapped their arms around Martin, resting their head on his chest. He always smelt faintly of tea, and another softer scent that he could never quite place.

“That’s good,” Martin said, returning the hug and pulling Jon close to his side.

“Found a statement,” Jon added, leaning their head on his chest so they could hear the steady beat of Martin’s heart and closing their eyes, “Areinne had me translate the journal of a man chased by the Hunt.”

“Oh, when from?”

“1896. Which lines up with where all the first Hunt aligned creatures we’ve found reference to.”

“Mm,” Martin said, “That’s a definite then?”

Jon nodded, opening his eyes again.

“And I suppose you need dessert?”

“Probably.” Jon said, as they gently pushed themself from Martin’s embrace.

‘Dessert’ had become another of their little codes, the research after a statement to pin everything into place and properly digest something. It helped stave away the gnawing hunger for longer, and it was not necessarily necessary, but had become part of their routine anyway. Anything to keep the Eye, ravenous as it was, sated.

“Alright,” Martin said, with a slight chuckle, “I’ll make us some actual dinner while you do that then.”

“Sounds great.” Jon said, “I’ll leave you to it.”

Martin smiled, kissing the top of Jon’s head before wandering off to the kitchen. Jon smiled, the tension of the day rolling off their shoulders as they pushed open the door to their room and walked inside. It was a small room, the only one with a window in their tiny little flat, which had a desk set up next to it so Jon could sit and watch the street, back during the days they were recovering from… everything really.

They took their seat there, sliding the battered, second hand laptop to them and flicking it open. They shared it with Martin, and they had a joint ‘statements’ account, and a separate one for each of them. Martin had said that he’d try to get himself his own laptop when he could afford it, but right now, it was all they had.

Jon ran through the few details they had from the statement, Mattis Blau, Silas Baier, Klaus, and Salzburg. Thus, their search began. Digging through old records for mentions of names, squinting at archived copies of old manuscripts that were difficult to read on the scanned in copies, tracking down the right Klaus for the right small village near Salzburg by a lake and a forest.

Eventually, they had scraped together enough information. Klaus was Klaus Pascal Häusler, a writer who’d lived in the small suburb of Laschensky, Mattis Blau was harder to track down, outside of the fact he was a registered citizen of the Kingdom of Bavaria, and had dropped off the map shortly before 1895, on a supposed hunting trip in the Austrian Alps. They knew enough of the fate of Silas Baier to be satisfied in that regard.

Sometimes, stupidly, he entertained the ‘this could just be the machinations of a tired and paranoid man’ notion, but if the words caught in their throat and came out in their unbidden flood, they knew it to be true. It was a bit of harmless fun, a filter for what they knew was there. What they didn’t want to face, just yet. Easier to pretend.

They eased shut the laptop, stretching out and yawning slightly. They were tired now, and they just needed a nice, warm meal, and to curl up next to Martin as they got some proper rest. Even if that rest wasn’t… pleasant. Either way, if they showed up to work having not slept, they were sure Meritt would have something to say about it.

Food was ready regardless.

They shut the laptop, and walked into the kitchen, where Martin had finished plating some pasta dish, turning to look at Jon and smiling.

“The second I’m done.” he said jokingly, handing Jon their plate.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jon said, adjusting their hold so they could pick up their fork.

Martin smiled, picking up his own plate.

“So,” he said, “Anything else happen today?”

“Not really.” Jon said, “You?”

“Mmmm,” Martin said, “Jenci’s hosting a get together next week.”

“Are you going?”

“Maybe.” Martin said, “I don’t know, it’s probably going to be really awkward, you know how it is. Office parties.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, “I think the last time I went to one of those, it was the birthday party of one of the security officers and I spent half the time standing awkwardly in a corner.”

“Watching.”

“Yes, watching, Martin,” Jon said, taking a bite of food. It was alright.

“Work treating you alright anyways,” they added, looking up.

“As well as it always has.” Martin said with a weak smile and a shrug, “Nobody pays that much attention to me, I don’t make them draw attention to me, Jan gives me more work then I can probably do in a day… yeah.”

“Mm,” Jon said, poking their fork through their food, “I just- You know.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “I mean, I think I’m fine. I’m probably fine. But- I… I understand.”

A moment of silence as they both quietly ate, unsure of what to say.

It was something that happened often now. An uncomfortable silence where they felt the weight of everything that happened to them, almost a year ago now. Everything even before that. Those experiences that only they knew.

“Well,” Martin said, clearing his throat, “Either way, I have you, and that’s enough.”

“Thank you.” Jon said, with a faint hint of hollow sarcasm in their voice.

Martin smiled, looking down at his food.

“Either way, I reckon we should go out this weekend.” he said, poking his fork through his food.

“Oh, what were you thinking?”

“Dunno, just, going out, see what we can find. We’ve spent a lot of time here, and I thought it might be good for you to go out when it isn’t for work.” Martin said, “I’ll be there to keep you grounded, anyways.”

“I suppose why not.” Jon said, “It- it has been a while hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “I mean, sure, last time our stroll through London was through an unholy hellscape filled with constantly watching eyes, but I can assure you, most of London here is very normal.”

“I know that Martin.”

“Of course you know that.” Martin said, “It’s just, sometimes you act like something is going to- I don’t know, jump out and kidnap you or something if you stray from your regular path.”

“In my defence, I have been kidnapped, rather a lot, over the past few years.”

“I know, I know.” Martin said with a sigh, “I’m just saying, that since the Eye is new, well, new-ish, you won’t be as important to the grand scheme of things as other powers. Henceforth, maybe, live a little, have fun while we still can.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Jon said, with a sigh, “But there is that Buried avatar that’s been stalking- Mm.”

“Go on?”

“It, doesn’t matter, just Knew something that was happening on the other side of London, it- it doesn’t affect us.”

“Jon.”

“There’s an avatar of the Buried that’s been stalking various graveyards since the sixties.” Jon said, “He, doesn’t know we exist, so it’s best we leave him be.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “Wouldn’t want to interact with, someone like that. Don’t, don’t want to get buried alive or whatever.”

Jon nodded in return.

“I- I really wish I didn’t you know-”

“Jon.”

“Fine, fine, I don’t like having no control over it, I feel… I feel like I’m drowning sometimes. Like- like the lake that it used to be is now a river, and I’m trying not to swallow contaminated water and unable to find what I can actually drink.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “I mean, I guess I miss that too, in a way. It’s probably pretty selfish.”

“No, I- I get it.” Jon said, “If I can’t control it, there’s nothing stopping me from Knowing anything about you. And, you should have that, that privacy.”

“Mm,” Martin said, “Guess I should just get used to it.”

“You, you don’t have to.” Jon said, “You can, still be bothered by it.”

Martin snorted as he smiled sadly, “Maybe.”

“I’ll, try to keep anything I Know to myself.” Jon said, hoping that that would be enough assurance.

They fell into silence again for a bit, eating quietly until they finished.

“Who’s doing the dishes today?” Jon asked.

“I made dinner, so it’s you.”

“Fair enough.”

Chapter Text

“Jonathan.”

Jonathan looked up from the document he was checking over, startled that he had not been alerted of Meritt’s approach.

“Yes, sorry sir.” he stammered, turning to face Meritt in his chair.

He was a stern man, with salt-and-pepper hair, a cruel face, and hard steely grey eyes that were always narrowed in disapproval. He always dressed in sharp suits that were all some shade of tan or brown, with several pens tucked into his breast pocket.

“You are aware we’re getting a visitor today.” Meritt said.

“I wasn’t.” Jonathan lied. He was aware they were getting a visit from a well-known historian, but he also Knew that Meritt would not take kindly to him Knowing anything he wasn’t supposed to, “But I assume I am to do the usual routine of finding something to do and keeping away from them?”

“Don’t speak to me with that tone,” Meritt said, “And yes, I would like you to. I have told Curtis the same.”

“Glad to see I’m not the only one.” Jonathan said, then immediately regretted it.

“Mm,” Meritt intoned, “Either way, there’s some files I need you to catalogue, and make it quick.”

“Of course.”

Meritt gave Jonathan one last, reproachful stare, before turning on his heel and stalking away through the other desks, turning to briefly talk with Rowan, another archivist, then continuing to his office at the back of the room.

“Prick,” Rowan muttered, loud enough for Jonathan to hear, before continuing to set up his laptop.

Jonathan sighed himself, stretched in his chair, before standing up.

He winced a little as he did. For some reason, his hip had been playing up, but he bit his tongue and pushed on with his life like it didn’t matter. He was just getting old. Then he had to grapple with the fact he probably couldn’t just ‘get old’, and then he’d give up and keep going with life, trying not to complain about it.

He just hoped it was nothing too serious, probably just an old injury deciding to make itself known. God knows getting dragged out of two separated collapsed buildings only about two years apart would probably do a number or someone, avatar or not.

“You doing alright Jon?” Rowan asked as he passed.

“Mm, oh, yes, I’m doing fine.” Jonathan said, “It’s just, how Meritt is.”

“A prick who can’t get the stick out of his ass.” Rowan said, matter-of-factly, “And I wasn’t talking about that. You’ve been limping a lot more recently.”

“Oh, its, its fine.” Jonathan said, “Just, getting old, you know how it is.”

“How old are you again?” Rowan said, raising his eyebrows and looking with mild disapprovement at Jonathan.

“Thirty… four? I think.” Jonathan said, a little sheepishly. He’d long stopped lying about his age to make himself seem more professional. Problem was, age was hard to quantify for him. It could have been only a couple of months, it could have been years, either way, any meaningful way he could age had been caught and frozen for so long, and it was hard to put a firm number on it.

“Damn,” Rowan said, with a laugh, “I’d’ve guessed late thirties at the least, you really are a bag of surprises.” he chuckled, “Still, you should probably get it checked out, could be something serious.”

“Maybe.” Jonathan said. He Knew well enough that it was the result of a tendon not quite healing properly, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with that information.

“Well, you have some thrilling cataloguing to get to, so I will not keep you.” Rowan said, “Just take care of yourself, alright?”

“I will.” Jonathan said, rolling his eyes in a light-hearted manner, before heading over to where the files he needed to catalogue were. Meritt had decided to overhaul their system, and Jonathan now spent most of his time shuffling around files from folder to folder, or going by drawers to change labels, or move them around. Why Meritt had chosen to do that, he didn’t know, and did not care.

Meritt had not specified which files he needed to sort, but he Knew which ones he was supposed to anyways, and found them. A series of written documents about several items found in the burial plot of some important Norman noble. Not that anyone would ever look at the paper version of the notes, as there were digital copies of everything, though occasionally someone would want the feel of paper between their fingers and call for the files themselves.

Jonathan didn’t blame them, not really.

Paper was reliable, solid. It didn’t corrupt, it didn’t break, it didn’t become inaccessible unless something happened to the very thing that made it. Sure, water and fire could ruin paper, and it aged and rotted like anything else, but there was still something special about the feel under his fingers, and the smell of it in his nose.

He let himself get absorbed in the work, truly and completely, carefully shuffling together files into folders, and moving those folders to their new, correct designation, then moving on to the next one. His mind soaked up the knowledge as he went, filling it with useless facts about whatever item the file was discussing, whatever niche piece of literature, whatever estranged branch of a royal family tree.

It wasn’t until Rowan approached that his laser focus was broken.

“Hello Rowan.”

“Hi Jon,” Rowan said, “Meritt’s kicked me out of where they keep all the actual documents, and now I have nothing to do.”

“Really, I’m sure there must be something-”

“Areinne is relabelling some of the items in storage, Curt is helping set up for the new exhibit, Meritt is welcoming our special guest, and you’re doing cataloguing. That leaves me, with nothing.”

“I’m sure you could go help Areinne, there is a lot of labels that do need updating so-”

“Nah, she’s doing just fine, best not to get in her way when she starts working on something. Plus, we haven’t had a proper talk, and you’ve been working here, what, two months?”

“Three, actually.”

“Yeah, what I said.” Rowan said, running his hand through his dirty blonde hair, “And I barely know you.”

Jonathan remained silent, making sure all the papers he was putting into a folder were aligned.

“Hm,” Rowan said, “Alright, let’s start with the basics, know your name, your age, ‘fact that you’re dating someone… When’s your birthday?”

“Rowan, is this, really necessary?”

“Come on, answer the question.”

“Fourth of April.”

“There we go.” Rowan said, clapping Jonathan lightly on the shoulder and causing him to wince as a spike of uncomfortable pain singed through it.

“Now,” Rowan said, “Favourite colour? Favourite food? Any allergies I should be aware of? National insurance number? Bank details?”

“Rowan.” Jonathan said, “Please.”

“Okay, one of those is kind of necessary.” Rowan pointed out.

“No, no I do not have any food allergies.” Jonathan said, “Outside of a mild allergy to strawberries and by proxy, kiwis.”

I- I did not know that. Since- Since when have I been… Never mind.

“That is noted.” Rowan said, “But seriously, lighten up. You act like the world is going to end at any moment.”

“I doubt that.” Jonathan said.

“No, seriously.” Rowan said, “You have the constant faraway stare, the constant mildly concerned expression, not to mention you look like you haven’t slept-”

“I meant the world ending thing.” Jonathan said.

“Really, what makes you so sure?”

“Just a hunch.” Jonathan said with a shrug.

“Fair enough.” Rowan said, “But if you really think about it-”

“Can we not joke about the world ending Rowan.”

“Alright, alright, fair enough.” Rowan said, “But do you need any help with that?”

“I’ve been managing fine.” Jonathan said, “But you might as well make yourself useful.”

“Alright.” Rowan said, as he glanced over the files, “But, I’m serious man, I know nothing about you.”

Jonathan didn’t know what to say to that, just flipping through the files and trying not to dwell on anything.

“Look, I get the whole, socially awkward loner who’s very sheepish about his past thing,” Rowan continued, “But you’ve got to talk to us. We’re co-workers, remember.”

“I do talk with you.” Jonathan pointed out.

“Yeah, about work, and only if we approach you first.” Rowan said, “You sit alone in the breakroom to eat, you occasionally lock yourself in the storage cupboard, and you never go out for drinks with us.”

“I have other things to do.” Jonathan protested, the idea of being in a crowded, noisy, pub or bar sending a shiver down his spine, too much information, too close, “And I cannot hold a drink to save my life.”

“Now, jury’s still out on that.” Rowan said, and Jonathan scoffed.

“You should have seen me in Uni.”

“Oh really? Didn’t think of you as the partying sort.”

“It was a, very different time.” Jonathan said, with a nervous chuckle. The time when he realised he had no friends, no real friends anyways, trying desperately to work out what the hell was going on with him, all while juggling doing a degree and getting into a relationship, and in hindsight, he’d thrown himself way to far into the deep end and was surprised when he started drowning.

“Alright,” Rowan said, before falling quiet as he flipped through the file he was organising, “But, look, we’re getting somewhere, which Uni did you go to?”

“Oxford.”

“Hm, pretty good, degree?”

“English Literature.”

“Huh, I thought it’d be History or something, given, y’know.”

“I just,” Jonathan said, trying to find the words. How did you explain that you were actually an inhuman monster that’s name was literally ‘the Archivist’ and so you felt you had to find work doing that, just so his life didn’t feel like it was velvet being rubbed the wrong, “My last job was an archivist position, and I just got used to it.”

“Right, okay, I mean-”

“Research organisation, may or may not have been a cult.”

“Okay, you can’t just say that and not explain.”

Shouldn’t have said anything, noted.

“Uh, well, it- it didn’t- it didn’t present itself as such, of course. I just- I was a researcher there for four years, then the old archivist died, no assistants to move in to take her place, so I got put there. That’s where the weird stuff happens and- and I couldn’t quit, illegal contract I think, and then the weird, god stuff happened. Then it was dissolved because the director was arrested for second degree murder and fraud.”

It was a convincing lie. Or so he hoped, and it was not too far from actual events that he felt guilty about lying. About brushing over the people, people who he’d been friends with, who’d died.

Rowan reminded him of Tim. That’s why he always felt so ill at ease around him.

“Fuck man.” Rowan said, “That is- Damn. What- the hell was the cult aspect?”

“We studied the paranormal.” Jonathan said, “And the director, and maybe a handful of other people kinda- worshipped these uh- eldritch gods?”

“What, like Cthulhu?”

“Not- not exactly?” Jonathan said, “It’s- Really hard to explain. But- uh,” dear god how do I explain this without sounding completely mad, “They believed that the paranormal was caused by these entities, and that- uh, their rituals could bring about worlds filled with whatever paranormal beings they created, to torment humanity.”

“Right.” Rowan said, squinting and looking off into the distance, “And… did you believe it?”

“Yes.” Jonathan said, trying to sound less convicted than he was. He left it at that. It would feel… hollow, to say he didn’t anymore. Because that- even the thought made his tongue itch, like his very being rebuked at the idea of being claimed to be separate from the very thing that sustained him. That even now burrowed into the base of his chest, chewing at his stomach.

Or maybe that was just the fact he hadn’t eaten normal, proper food today. He was still trying to disentangle the two hungers.

“Right… so-”

“I’d like to get back to work if that’s fine with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s, that’s perfectly fine.”

Jonathan nodded, and continued to flip through the files.

Chapter Text

The people upstairs were arguing again.

That would normally be perfectly fine, if it wasn’t almost midnight, and they were shouting so loud that Jon could understand whole sentences, and they likely could be heard by the people three floors down.

Jon sighed, curling closer to Martin, who was luckily already fast asleep.

He was a much deeper sleeper than Jon, and had no trouble slipping off into slumber. Jon had always struggled themself, unless they were bone tired, they would always lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, until they finally drifted off, or, more recently, Martin got fed up and pinned them to his chest.

They were wrapped up in Martin’s arms now, warmth seeping out and into them, hearing the soft beat of his heart as they rested their head on his chest.

Something broke upstairs, and the yelling got louder.

Would they just shut up already? Jon swore they’d probably had this exact same argument twenty times since they moved in, and it was getting old.

Maybe they shouldn’t judge. They didn’t know.

They huffed, and shuffled a little, closing their eyes and trying to will themself to sleep. They knew what awaited them when it finally came to them, but at the same time… they needed sleep. They were so tired.

And hungry. Why were they hungry, now?

They sighed, opening their eyes and looking up to Martin, so peaceful as he slept, a thin stroke of dim street light splashing onto his face from a crack in the curtains.

Slowly, Jon disentangled themself from Martin’s grasp, careful not to wake him, and then slid out of the sheets, feeling the bitter chill of their flat sink into their skin as they left the gentle warmth of the bed. Carefully, they slid one of the blankets sprawled on top of their duvet and threw it around their shoulders, hoping to preserve some of that warmth.

They padded silently to the desk, carefully taking where the laptop had been left to charge, and casting one more glance over their shoulder at Martin, crept into the living room, and eased the door shut behind them.

They could still hear the shouts of the people upstairs, but they were ever so slightly quieter.

Jon sighed, opening the laptop and logging into the shared account, quickly finding the massive paste-bin of potential links and scrolling through them, waiting for one to jump out and catch their attention. They eventually stopped at one, the link to a reply on an ask blog, and clicked on it.

After quickly scanning through the contents, they cleared their throat, and began to read.

“ User Iheartghosts asks:

“ What’s a strange or unexplainable experience you had growing up? Could be anything really, just looking for inspiration and thought asking random strangers might help with that lol

“ Reply by user Archoverfallentower:

“ Might as well, seems kinda strange to talk about it here, but I guess there was this strange thing that happened when I was about thirteen or fourteen.

“ There was this guy, who lived just a few houses up my street, who, I didn’t really know. He mostly kept to himself and didn’t seem to bother anyone so nobody bothered him. He was just, another part of the community. Though, sometimes, on sunny days he’d sit in his yard and smile at people that passed by, and we’d smile and wave back, but not really say anything.

“ Then, he doesn’t do that for a few weeks, and nobody sees him. That’s fine, probably just went on holiday without his car and nobody saw him leave, nothing unusual there.

“ It’s when he comes back, that strange stuff starts to happen. He’d walk down to the end of his yard, every day at exactly eight am, and stand there until nine, rain, shine, driving snow, heck, saw him standing out there in the middle of a bloody blizzard once! But yeah, everyday, like clockwork, he’d come to the end of the yard, grinning ear to ear and just, stand there. And whenever someone passed him by, he’d smile and say ‘hello, nice day isn’t it?’ with the same, flat, cheery tone. I should know, I passed by his house every day on the way to school.

“ I talked to him once, like, outside of saying ‘yeah, nice day’ or ‘hey’. And I remember him just staring at me, with these dead, glassy eyes when I asked him how he was doing and saying, ‘just fine. Nice day, isn’t it?’, freaked me the hell out. And as I tried to talk more, he’d just say the same few phrases on loop, like one of those cheap, pull string dolls (you know the ones, like Woody from Toy Story). So I decided to just, leave, and keep going to school.

“ Of course, that’s not where the weird stuff ends. After my failed attempt at a conversation, I kinda started, watching him. Not in a weird way, I wasn’t breaking into his back yard and peering through his windows, I just started paying more attention to his behaviour. He seemed to have a set, rigid schedule, so everyday at three he’d water the plants on his windowsill, plants that looked like they were dying, and a windowsill stained with soaked-through soil. They would sit and watch TV for two hours at twelve, and eat at six, though the food looked mouldy and rotten. And they did all of it with the same, blank stare and fixed, doll-like smile. Hecking weird.

“ Worst part was, late at night, he didn’t close his window blinds, and one time, I was running a late errand, and I swear I saw something that was way too tall and way too thin wandering around in the upper rooms. Didn’t stick around long to get a good look at it though.

“ Must have been, what, six months(?) before someone finally snapped and called the cops. It was like a proper raid, and you want to know what they found?

“ That guy’s, skinned, decomposing corpse stuffed into the fridge. They couldn’t find the guy who had supposedly been living in that house, but after some searching, they found this, life sized mannequin draped in this guys skin, and those dolls that ventriloquists use, hundreds of ‘em, all stuffed in various cupboards and shit.

“ Apparently that guy had been dead for months, and it terrifies me to think about whatever the hell was pretending to be him all that time.

“ So yeah, a bit gruesome near the end, but it is true, you can look up the details to confirm it though, me and my family moved from that house shortly after it happened, so don’t worry about doxxing me or anything if you want to post it here.

“ Reply from User IheartGhosts to User Archoverfallentower:

“ Jesus dude. Yeah, this is pretty messed up. Might take some inspiration from it, heck, maybe even ask a friend to cover it. (they do podcasts lmao)

“ Reply from User Archoverfallentower to User IheartGhosts:

“ Yeah, it’s chill dude, go ahead. It was weird, but it didn’t like, traumatise me or anything.

“ Reply from User LocalGhostFreak to User Archoverfallentower:

“ Actually did some digging on the case, and figured out that the person OP is talking about is Carter French, who lived in Stoke-On-Trench, and whose skinned body was found crammed into his own fridge in his suburban home when a concerned neighbour called for a well-fair check in mid-2018, as OP said. No culprit was ever found, but you can read the news article about it from the time here .

“ Reply from User IheartGhosts to User LocalGhostFreak:

“ Thanks LocalGhostFreak, I’ll check it out later! ”

Jon sighed as he finished, shaking themself off. They considered checking out the news article linked, but decided against it. They had enough information here, and they were sure there were plenty more statements on this thread if they got peckish.

“Jon?”

Jon looked up in mild surprise, seeing Martin standing in the door, rubbing his eyes sleepily, “What are you doing up right now?”

“I- couldn’t sleep.” Jon admitted, “I was hungry and they’re,” they gestured vaguely above them, “Still arguing.”

“I know.” Martin said, “I’m just-” he suppressed a yawn, “Worried, you know? You just read a statement yesterday, and I find you in here, reading another.”

“I know.” Jon said, “I just- I don’t know. It makes me feel better. All this- new terror. And, there’s so much of it. But it’s never, it’s never quite the same.”

“Mm,” Martin said, gently taking a seat next to him on the sofa, “You’re famished, aren’t you.”

“Yes.” Jon admitted, “I am- starving. The Eye’s starving. You try going from an all-you-can-eat buffet to scavenging what you can get from the edges of other people’s plates and see how it treats you.”

“Thought so.” Martin said, with a slight sigh, “I just, worry, okay? I don’t want you hurting anyone.”

“Neither do I.” Jon said, bundling their knees up to their chest and wrapping their arms around them, “I just have to- grit my teeth and get through it, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, wrapping his arm around Jon and pulling him close, “I’m sure we’ll manage. We’ve been through worse.”

“We sure have.” Jon laughed quietly, as they leaned their head into Martin’s shoulder, and listened to the argument still raging on upstairs.

Chapter Text

The streets of London were as bustling with life as they always were. It felt slightly uncanny to Jon for no good reason, as they navigated through the crowd, hand-in-hand with Martin, occasionally leaning on him to ground themself.

It was a nice day, the sun was shining, there wasn’t a hint of rain on the breeze, and it was finally beginning to warm up after the months of bitter winter chill. That also meant that a lot of people had decided today was a good day to go out.

The tube had been so crowded on the way here that there were no seats, and Jon had to cram themself next to Martin. Not that they minded, it allowed them to keep a focus on something that wasn’t the deluge of random bits of information that slithered their way into their mind as they were bashed and jostled by the people standing around them.

Now, though, they were in the fresh air, heading down into Kensington Gardens, where the crowds separated out into many roving groups that wandered about on the many green places, at picnics under trees, or sat together on benches.

Martin found them a nice, comfy tree to settle under, overlooking a long, open patch of field that lead down to the Long Water, where a few cormorants circled over the surface, before diving into the dark water.

“See,” Martin said, “Not so bad.”

“I suppose not.” Jon said, with a weary chuckle, “It has been a while since I went here, even in the apocalypse.”

“Mm,” Martin said, as he shuffled his shoulder bag between them, and pulled out a thermos, “Tea?”

“Why not.” Jon laughed, as Martin poured out a cup and handed it to them.

They sat in silence for a bit, just, sipping tea and looking out over the sunlit grass, where children ran about, crying and laughing to each other. Jon traced their eyes to the sky, clear blue, scuppered with fluffy white clouds. It was a perfect twelve degrees celsius, not too chilly, not too warm either, and there wasn’t a rainy front for two more days. Summer was really beginning to creep in now as Spring progressed, the trees around them growing out their new leaves, and great beds of crocuses blooming in their colourful display of purple, yellow and white.

“This is nice,” Martin said eventually, “Just us. The beautiful weather, no fear of anything hunting us, just this.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, sipping on their tea, which had cooled to a more tolerable temperature, “I- I like this too.”

“Mm,” Martin said, “Never really, got out after the, well, the Unknowning really.”

Jon nodded, looking off into the distance.

“I hope they’re doing alright,” they said with a sigh, “Georgie, Melanie and Basira I mean. I don’t- I don’t know if they survived.”

“I hope so.” Martin said, “Then- Then what would all this be for.” he paused, taking a sip of his own tea, “But, there’s really, not a lot of point in dwelling on what happened, is there?”

“I-” Jon said, “I’m not sure if I’m ready yet. I just- It’s hard.”

“I know.” Martin said, “I miss them too.”

“Yeah,” Jon said, casting their gaze over the park again. They could feel knowledge pushing into their mind, and for once, they pushed back. They needed a moment of ignorance, of trying to remember what it was like. Would it drive them mad? Not being able to know without seeking out the knowledge, without having a sense of where to look. Sure, they did research… but it wasn’t the same as it had been, they were sure of that.

Martin moved his hand to gently rest on Jon’s wrist, and they removed their hands from the edge of the cup, and slid it down so that they could intertwine their fingers with Martin’s.

They sat in that quiet silence for a long while, sipping on tea and watching people as they went by. It felt nice. Like they were at ease here, doing just that. Watching. Or maybe it was the Eye talking, they didn’t know.

Eventually, Martin unwound his fingers and stood up.

“Come on, we’re going shopping.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really ,” Martin said, “We have like, four outfits each, and you know that jumper hasn’t been washed in months.”

“It’s a nice jumper.” Jon protested, neglecting to mention it was the only one that didn’t make them feel like they wanted to crawl out of their skin, and made their eyes itch. Which was not fun.

“Yes, a nice jumper that really needs a wash .” Martin said, “Aaaaand, I’ve been saving up. So we have enough to go a little extravagant if we want to.”

“You’re too kind.” Jon said, holding their hand out. Martin took it and helped them to their feet.

“Well, I think you deserve a little bit of kindness.” Martin said, “Come on, before the lunch rush.”

“Alright, alright.” Jon said, handing Martin their half finished mug so that he could put it away, “But we’re eating out for lunch.”

***

“It’s a nice shirt.”

“I just- It makes my eyes itch.”

“All of them?”

“All of them.”

“Alright, another on the pile.” Martin chuckled, “I’ll continue to stand watch.”

“You do that.” Jon said, as they carefully peeled off the shirt they’d been trying on.

They knew they’d always been… difficult when clothes shopping, which is why they had preferred to do it alone. They’d gotten enough complaints from their grandmother growing up when they’d throw a fit because they didn’t like the feel of the clothes, and she’d grit her teeth and tell them to stop making a fuss and put the damn clothes on.

Now, there was also the matter of what he looked like. Not just the scars that marred his skin in a tapestry, old burn scars from the Unknowing, the perfect, circular worm scars, the speckles of stabs along their shoulders, but the perfect, glossy eyes that burst in small clusters across their body. They were less than they had been during the apocalypse, where they bloomed from every available spot of skin they could find an anchor point (except their palms and the soles of their feet, thank God), but they were still there, in sporadic clusters along their arms, chest and back.

They were glad they couldn’t actually see out of them, they were purely agents of the Eye, but they could still feel pain if they brushed their finger along them, or prodded them by accident. Martin was careful with them in that regard, but since most people didn’t know, they just generally avoided getting into situations where physical contact was a necessity.

They sighed, carefully tugging on another shirt. It was long sleeve, made of a cool, silk-like material and a pleasant shade of pastel blue. They quite liked it. That went on the, ‘definitely buy’ pile then. It was also the last thing they had to try on.

They sighed, slipping that shirt off and carefully reattaching it to the hanger, then slipping on the clothes they’d been wearing prior. After they’d done that, they picked up the pile of everything they were going to buy, and the one’s they weren’t to leave in the designated place in the changing room.

They pushed aside the curtain to the changing room, stepping out to hand the small pile of things they wanted to Martin.

“Done?”

“Done.”

“Alright,” Martin said, “Twelve new outfits. I’ll pay for this, and then we can go get something to eat.”

“Sounds good.”

***

They stopped to eat at a small sandwich place, and promptly got into a light-hearted argument about whether scythes would or would not be acceptable weapons, which involved Jon Knowing the history of the crafting of scythes in mid-to-late mediaeval Ireland.

The food was nice too.

Afterwards, they wandered around a bit more, chatting aimlessly, before stopping in a store to buy a few additions to Jon’s antique stamp collection, a collection they did have to restart. That and the marble collection. And the antique tea sets.

They also stopped to allow for Jon to coo over a cat that had offered itself to be pet. It did, unfortunately, have a loving owner and home to go back to, so Jon couldn’t beg Martin to let them bring it back with them.

“You are adorable like this, you know.” Martin said, standing by their side and watching them with fond amusement.

“I am not,” Jon said, before addressing the cat, “But you are, aren’t you?”

Martin laughed, “Sure Jon, sure. C’mon, let’s get going.”

“Can I stay a bit longer?” Jon simpered, as they continued to stroke the fur down the cat’s spine.

“No,” Martin said, “C’mon.”

“Alright,” Jon said, standing up fully, “You stay safe, alright little guy.”

The cat gave a contented meow, before running to jump onto the railing by the side of the street, looking over to them as they turned to leave.

It was as they were waiting for the tube to take them back home did Jon notice something in the back of their mind. They paused, looking over the station, eventually falling on an older woman, bundled in clothes for weather that was a tad colder than what they were actually experiencing. But that’s not what drew his attention, something burned inside them, something that he needed. A terror that lay hidden and restrained, waiting to be coaxed forth-

“Jon,” Martin said sharply, grabbing their arm. They hadn’t even noticed they’d begun to stand up from one of the benches they’d come to settle on.

“Sorry,” Jon stammered, flicking their gaze back to him, then to that person. They just needed to-

“We’re going to the other end of the station, come on.” Martin said, not removing his grip from their arm, “We can’t, we can’t do this, okay?”

“Right, yes, sorry.” Jon said, “Let’s, let’s go.”

Martin huffed, and carefully dragged Jon down to the other end of the station, right as the train arrived.

“Look, I’ll make dinner today,” he said, “Then we can watch a documentary, and just, forget about this.”

Jon nodded, and stepped onto the train.

Chapter Text

They had a quiet day the next day.

They slept in until ten, then spent an hour curled up together, speaking softly to each other in low tones, or drowsing pleasantly in the warmth.

Eventually, they did get up, properly, anyways, with blankets wrapped around their shoulders as they slowly adjusted to the slight chill of the air outside their little cocoon of body heat. The sky outside was a steely grey, with no sun shining through the clouds, only that faint overcast glow.

Breakfast was a quiet affair, curled up on the sofa together, eating slightly stale cereal, careful to not get any milk on the blankets and ruin them. They were quite nice blankets, all things considered, soft, and good at keeping in heat once you wrapped yourself safely in them.

“Your birthday’s coming up.” Martin said at one point and Jon chuckled.

“I suppose it is.” they said, shovelling a mouthful of, dry, cereal into their mouth, “Why’d’ya bring it up?”

“Dunno,” Martin said, “I guess I just, wanted to know if you wanted to do anything special. It, falls on a weekday, but I’m sure that won’t really matter.”

“No,” Jon said, “What did we do for your birthday again?”

“We went out to the cinema-”

“Right, yes, I remember now, yes.” Jon said, “Honestly, I don’t really care.”

“Is that the go ahead for me to spoil you?”

Jon chuckled dryly, “I mean, if you want to.”

“Maybe I will.” Martin said, with smug certainty, “You’ll see. Now, how old would that make you…”

“Martin, you know-”

“Time was not a concept we were beholden to, so therefore our age is completely unquantifiable, yeah, yeah, I get it, but- come on.” Martin said, “Do what I do and make a vague guess. I’m a February 29th baby, I’m used to doing that.”

“I- I thought you said it was February 28th?”

“Nope.” Martin said, “29th. Just say the 28th because it’s generally easier, I mean, how do you explain your only, like, eight or something.”

“That’s not how it works Martin-”

“Don’t start,” Martin said, “I don’t want to have the full lecture on how leap years work when I’ve just woken up.”

“We woke up an hour ago.” Jon said, “Technically, anyways.”

“Yeah, technically. I’m still waking up.”

“You sound very awake to me.”

“Shut up.”

Jon smiled, but shut up.

That sat in silence for a bit, still eating, before Martin carefully set his bowl down on the coffee table and announced he was going to shower.

“Alright,” Jon said, “Be careful.”

“Jon, I’m showering, not going to war.”

“I know.” Jon said, “I just-” they felt their face grow hot, “It felt right okay.”

“Sure it did.” Martin said, “And, after I’m done, I could wash your hair if you’d like?”

“I wouldn’t mind that.” Jon admitted.

“Alright,” Martin said, “Well, I’m going now, I’m sure you’ll be fine for the ten minutes I’m gone, goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Jon said with a laugh, before turning back to trawling through their dry bowl of cereal. As far as they were concerned, the person who decided that milk and cereal was a staple breakfast food was an aspect of the Corruption sent to torment them specifically. They couldn’t stand soggy cereal.

And now they Knew the early history of the Kellogg’s company. Great, they did not need to Know that, but alright.

They let their mind wander a little, sliding their gaze over the shelves that sat curled in the cramped corners of their living room. Like most things in their flat, it was small, made so the landlord could rent out as many flats as possible without getting sued by any of the residents.

Jon would have considered it an attempt at a Lonely ritual, if it wasn’t for the fact that the Lonely was too weak to even think of attempting that, and the walls were so thin you were well aware of the people around you. That if you did scream, at least four people, or four groups of people, would hear you.

Not to say Jon wasn’t suspicious of the landlord.

They were. When they’d been strong enough to walk long distances on their own they’d gone to visit them, and quickly found a reprehensible, repulsive man who left a foul taste in their mouth, and a distrustful lean to the very building they called home. He was no Arthur Nolan, sure, but that didn’t make him trustworthy.

But that was every landlord, wasn’t it?

Either way, they and Martin had managed to make the space liveable, with a small box of DVDs and even a few VHS tapes Martin had found in a yard sale in the corner, which sat atop the box of tapes which neither of them really wanted to listen to. A shelf with several books loosely scattered over its old, slightly worm-eaten surface - most of them dog-eared, with cracked and faded spines, and one copy of Pride and Prejudice that had some of the past owners annotations in the margins, which were sometimes hilarious to read alongside the text itself. There was also the old TV that really only had four channels, BBC one, two, ITV and BBC four, but it was enough to get their hands on a good selection of documentaries, live news, and sports - which neither of them cared about.

Jon didn’t know if they liked the flat being this small. It was easy to find things when they were lost, but they were certain they could probably find anything they lost nowadays. It felt, homey, safe. Never suffocating or too close, there was enough space to be able to move and do things, maybe just enough sure, but enough.

They sighed, before taking their bowl - and Martin’s - to the kitchen, another small room that was just barely big enough for the two of them between the counters, but was serviceable.

They carefully discarded any uneaten food, before doing their duty of washing up afterwards. The dishwasher had broken, and neither of them were really bothered enough to get it fixed at that point.

And, by the time they were done, Martin was also finished, shaking water from his sandy blonde hair as he carefully adjusted the jumper he’d pulled on.

“Water pressure is a little off.” he commented, coming to lean against the wall.

“I could go pester the landlord,” Jon suggested, “Spook him into actually caring about us for once.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” Martin said with a sigh, “I think that would make our lives worse , not better.”

“You don’t know that.” Jon said, drying their hands off, “Perhaps knowing that he is beholden to an all-knowing creature beyond his comprehension will make him more likely to give us special treatment.”

“Or more likely to burn down the building with us in it.”

“Maybe, could go either way.”

“Yeah, and I don’t like the latter option.”

“Fine, fine, I won’t make him spit out his deepest fears… yet.”

“Don’t joke about it.”

“Alright, I won’t.”

“Now, come on, before our hot water runs out for the day.”

“It doesn’t work like that Martin-”

“I know, I know,” Martin said, “But you know how long it takes to warm up. I’d rather it still be warm than having to wait for it to heat up again.”

“We should really-”

“Say another word about our landlord and you’re doing it yourself.” Martin said.

“Fine, fine.” Jon laughed, “But don’t lie about the fact you have sent him several very strongly worded emails.”

“Yeeesss,” Martin said, testily, “But that was when nothing worked and you were still partially bed-ridden.”

“Mm, can’t say I don’t agree with that then.”

“Yeah,” Martin said with a huff, “Still don’t understand how you can sell a flat without a working heater.”

“Neither can I to be honest.” Jon laughed, pushing open the door to the bathroom.

“I mean,” Martin continued, stepping in after them, “It’s a basic necessity! Next to running water, a working heater is the bare bloody minimum for a flat!”

“And a roof that doesn’t leak.”

“And a roof that doesn’t leak!” Martin said, taking a towel and folding it a couple of times, then setting it on the edge of the bath, “I don’t even know how that happened, given there’s what, five floors above us?”

“Eight.” Jon corrected, settling carefully down on the floor, “And ten beneath us.”

“Even worse.” Martin said, beginning to run the water and testing it on one hand, “Don’t even want to know where that water was coming from.”

“Mm,” Jon muttered, carefully leaning their head back and resting it on the towel.

“Speaking off actually,” he said, “Do you know when-”

“1850s,” Jon said, “Some of the worst outbreaks of cholera occurred, alongside the drought that led to the revealing of the massive amount of raw sewage that had been dumped into the Thames, eventually leading to the construction of the current London sewer system. And about that time, a ton of cases of strange infestations, sicknesses and other such things across Britain, and I even found one case in France.”

“Hm,” Martin said, “So, is this stuff you Know or…? Also, is the water alright?”

“The water’s fine, and Meritt had me look through a ton of documents from the time when I first joined.” Jon explained, “In his eyes, it was a sure-fire way to expose me to the sometimes gruesome or repulsive records we keep, and reading about a man’s face rotting off is certainly a good taste of that.”

“Right,” Martin said, “I suppose he-”

“I wouldn’t tell him if he was holding me at knife point.” Jon said, “So no, he didn’t know about Jane, or any of the other avatars.”

“How much do your co-workers know about you?” Martin asked, as he began to carefully massage shampoo into Jon’s hair.

“Uuuuuh,” Jon said, “They know I’m dating you, my last place of work was an archiving position, I was part of cult-”

“Sorry, you were what?!”

“That’s how I explained the Magnus Institute.” Jon said, throwing up his hands defensively, “I was never part of a cult outside of that.”

“Mmm, it was pretty cult-y wasn’t it?”

“And that’s why I explained it as such.” Jon said, “Outside of that… pretty much it.”

“Mmm,” Martin said, “Alright. I suppose that’s… good, but you do have to tell them more about yourself, well, maybe not the cult, kidnapped-at-least-three-times, declared-legally-dead-twice backstory, but you know.”

“I- I don’t know Martin.” Jon sighed, “What about you?”

“Me? I’m not sure my co-workers are aware I exist half the time.” Martin said, carefully stroking soap suds from Jon’s hair, “I just, am.” he shrugged, “They invite me to things sometimes, they’re cordial-”

“They’re placing bets on you.”

“What?”

“They’re, mm, they’re placing bets on whether or not you’ll show up to Jenci’s party, and whether you’ll bring someone or not.”

“Well, there goes any sense of professionalism.” Martin huffed, carefully applying conditioner, before settling back and leaning on the edge of the bath, “I want to go now, just to spite them.”

“And?”

“Do you want to go?”

“Not really.”

“Thought as much.”

Jon sighed, carefully crossing one of their legs over the other.

“If it’s any reconciliation, Brandern and Linette are betting on you not going.”

“Oh screw them.” Martin said, “God, Linette .”

“Bad blood?”

“You have no idea.”

“Thinks all tea is the same and barely acknowledges your existence outside of you being an annoyance to her?”

“Yes.”

“I can see why you don’t like her. That also-”

“Yes Jon, I know.” Martin said, beginning to rinse their hair out again, “This is different okay? You were kinda hot with your academic snobbery, she’s just- she’s just an asshole. Plain and simple.”

“Or maybe, maybe you just don’t let people walk all over you anymore.”

A moment of disapproving silence.

“I’d like to remind you that there’s nothing stopping me from snapping your neck right now.”

“You wouldn’t.” Jon said, trying not to sound as panicked as they felt.

“You never know,” Martin said, continuing to rinse out their hair, before stopping, “No, you’re right, I wouldn’t.”

“Thought as much.” Jon said smugly.

“Yeah, yeah.” Martin said, switching off the water and taking a towel to take out the worst of the damp in their hair.

“Either way,” Jon said, slowly sitting up and draping the towel they’d been leaning on around their shoulders, “I’m sure having petty grudges is a good thing.”

“Really.” Martin said, drying off his own hands, “I mean, I suppose it is better than angsting over some, all-seeing entity that feeds on your fear.”

“Hey,” Jon said, looking over to Martin, “I’m not that bad.”

“Mm,” Martin said, shrugging, “You can’t hear yourself sometimes.”

Jon laughed sadly, before they carefully took Martin’s collar and pulled him down to kiss him.

It was short, sweet, brief, but spoke louder than any words.

“Thank-you.” they said after, and Martin returned with a small kiss on their forehead.

“You’re welcome. Now, lunch.”

“We just had breakfast!”

“Mm, still twelve though.”

“Alright, alright.”

Chapter Text

“I am back! The cold has finally been vanquished, and I am well enough to return to work!”

Jonathan looked up from his desk to see Sandy trotting through into the archives in her shin-high black leather boots, a burgandy, tartan patterned jacket slung over the black graphic tee of some band, and her blonde hair dyed with rainbow tips.

“Good to see you up and about.” Rowan laughed from where he was sorting his own desk, “Great to have our resident eyesore back in the building.”

“Oh come on Rowan.” Sandy laughed, “You should see Kathy in security, and don’t know who told her that haircut was a good idea, but it certainly wasn’t me.”

“Yeah right,” Areinne said, “It’s good to have you back, anyways Sandy.”

“Always a pleasure.” Sandy said, before there was the sound of someone clearing their throat, and they all turned to see Meritt leaning out of his office, staring daggers at all of them.

“Glad to see you’re back Sandy.” he said, “But can we get over the festivities and get back to work ?”

“Sure thing boss.” Sandy said, with a mock salute.

Meritt grumbled, and slammed shut the door to his office.

“Utter killjoy.” Sandy eventually snorted, “So, anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Not really.” Areinne said, “I mean, Jon produced another excellent translation.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sandy said, looking over to Jonathan, “Guten Tag! How’s a favourite Google Translate given human form doing?”

“I’m doing fine.” Jonathan said, “And I am not Google Translate.”

“Mmmmmmm, press X to doubt.” Sandy said, “I swear you know like, three languages fluently enough to properly translate them.”

“That doesn’t automatically make me like Google Translate.” Jonathan snorted, “Google Translate is inherently flawed in the fact that it makes rigid, algorithmic decisions for something as fluid as language. I do not do that.”

“Alright, alright.” Sandy laughed, “I better start calling you Google incarnate.”

“Please don’t.”

“I won’t.” Sandy smiled, “Well, either way, better get to work before Meritt gets even more grumpy than he already is.”

“Yeah,” Rowan said, “You want to help me with re-filing?”

“Oh, I was thinking of going to keep an eye on any students or historians that might want to wander through.” Sandy said.

“Areinne can do that, right?” Rowan said.

“Sure,” she said with a shrug, “Been a while since I’ve tried to explain how our filing system works to a bamboozled history student.”

“There’s hardly any of them anymore.” Rowan sighed, “It’s aaaaall digital now.”

“There’s still some people who want to see physical copies of things.” Jonathan pointed out, “And having the documents is usually good for documentaries.”

“Yeah,” Sandy said, “But usually documentaries send ahead if they want to access our archives. You know, so we’re aware of cameras and stuff.”

“I knew that.” Jonathan said, “I was just, giving reasons someone might want to come here, that’s all.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sandy said, “We know! Mr. Google with his infinite wisdom.”

“Stop, calling me that. Please.”

“Make me.” Sandy said, sticking out her tongue, before composing herself, “I’m sure you and Curt can do labelling together.”

“I’m sure I can.” Jonathan said, casting his gaze over to where Curtis was standing awkwardly in the corner, holding a half eaten croissant. He smiled awkwardly back, then glanced back down to what he was eating.

There was a moment of awkward silence, before Jonathan cleared his throat.

“Shall we?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Curtis said, “Just, gimme a second, you go ahead.”

Jonathan nodded, and meandered his way to where most of the important documents and artefacts were kept. It was probably one of the largest rooms, with hundreds of white, steel shelves, full of drawers that you could slide out to reveal anything from perfectly preserved bird’s eggs, to documents dating back to 1605, to ancient weapons so fragile and corroded they couldn’t be put on display without risk of breakage.

He found the place where the label maker was, then got to work in the section for anything in their collection dating back to about the eighteen hundreds. It was a smaller part of the collection, mostly old coins and journals, but Jonathan knew that here was where he could maybe find a fresh meal he hadn’t found elsewhere. When the fears had slunk into the world, nervously hunting for any scraps of food that they could, like starving dogs after the fire that destroyed the slaughterhouse they had once called home.

Jonathan’s thoughts drifted to the fears, as they so often did. They must all be starving, perhaps maybe not the End, or the Web, quiet, considerate fears that let food come to them, as it was sure to. And of course, the many fears that had breached into the world in the early years, the Dark, the Corruption, the Web and the End themselves. But more recent ones, the Eye, the Lonely, the Stranger, they would hold more hunger than the others.

Not for the first time, as he carefully found himself winding his fingers around the imaginary tether to the Eye, he wondered if it was mad at him. That is knew that he had been the reason for its removal from a world where it could consume all. But the thought of his master experiencing anything but voyeuristic joy and ceaseless hunger was a laughable one. He’d sat in the centre of the Eye, felt all its powers and intentions run through his veins like liquid gold, and he Knew it could not think, it could only Know, endlessly Know, tuck away all knowledge into neat little boxes and let it sit and fester there. It could not feel bitterness, rage, spite. It just was .

He was cut off from his thoughts when Sandy approached, coming to lean by where he was working. She was at least a foot taller than him, and the boots she wore added an additional few inches to her height.

“Hello Sandy,” he sighed, “I thought you were helping Rowan?”

“Rowan doesn’t really need help.” Sandy said, “And I wanted to come talk to my-”

“For the last time, can you not call me the living incarnation of Google, or Bing, or Firefox, or Wikipedia, or any such search engine, website or physical medium no matter how niche or well known.”

“Jeez, okay.” Sandy laughed, “No need to bite my head off about it. And you didn’t cover applications.”

“Those too.” Jonathan snorted, neatly re-printing the label in his most legible handwriting when he was writing at a ninety-degree angle.

“Dang it.” Sandy said, “Shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“Mm,” Jonathan said, “How are the kids by the way?”

“Oh, peachy.” Sandy said, “Davin’s come down with the same cold I had, so he’s now become a snotty little brat, rather than just his normal category of little brat.”

“It’s not a cold,” Jonathan said, “It’s a late bout of flu.”

“Sorry?”

“I just-” Jonathan stammered, realising he’d spoken without thinking, and now had to scramble over himself to make up an excuse, “-The symptoms you mentioned, while yes, could be a cold, are closer- closer to those of flu. Fever, headaches-”

“Yeah, yeah, I get that.” Sandy said, “You know, you’re surprisingly observant for someone who has his nose buried in a book half the time.”

“Am I?” Jonathan said, “Surprisingly I mean.”

“Okay, maybe not.” Sandy snorted, “I reckon you’re just one hell of a listener. You like listening into conversations.”

“I do not!”

“Mm, nothing wrong with it.” Sandy said, “I do it all the time.”

Really not your place to be mad Jon, really not.

“Let me just have it on record,” Jonathan said, keeping his tone even, “that I do not like listening into people’s conversations.”

“Mmm, you’re not denying it.”

“Sandy, please.”

“Fine, fine.” Sandy said, “Do you need help with reaching the upper shelves by the way.”

“I can manage just fine.” Jonathan said, “I’m sure the labels just need to be visible, not consistent, and if Meritt had any problems with it he can come and tell me himself for once, rather than glaring at me from across the room.”

That came out harsher than I expected, god damn it.

“Oh, can you actually tell what he means by that?”

“Half of the time, no clue. But sometimes I get the gist.”

Or the entire, painstaking list of exactly what he wants me to do.

“Mm, better than most of us.” Sandy said, “We just assume it means ‘get back to work you unholy cretins’ and pretend not to notice.”

“Mmm,” Jonathan said, “Now, if you don’t mind.”

“Alright, I won’t keep you.” Sandy said, “I’ll go find Curt and start pestering him.”

“Alright, you do that.”

With that, Sandy trotted off, and Jonathan gave a slight sigh of relief. He did like Sandy, she was just… a lot, most of the time, meaning he could only really handle talking to her in short bursts, before having nothing to do with her for hours. Whether he had a say in the matter was another thing, but he’d long since learnt to smile politely and nod along, not wasting his breath when he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bed back home, drinking a nice, hot cup of tea curled up next to Martin.

Jonathan turned back to his work, and carefully ran his hand along one of the drawers. This one felt different, it had a pull to it.

He slid it carefully open. An old journal, battered and faded, but still legible.

His fingers coiled around it as he carefully flipped through the pages, falling on the one he wanted, then looking up and glancing around.

Nobody would notice if he vanished for a couple of minutes, would they?

He sure hoped not.

Chapter Text

“ August 3rd, 1845

“ Today the sun was swallowed up by a cloud so thick and dark I could not see my hand in front of my face. This is happening more and more often, and nobody seems to notice. It’s as if they can still wander through these pitch dark streets, like some kind of nocturnal animal, while I am here, blind as a bat, bumping into people the whole way down. Or perhaps nobody can see me either.

“ Either way, my chat with Summers went exceptionally well, he seemed quiet understanding of my lateness, saying it was ‘quite gloomy outside’, I laughed.

“ ‘My good sir’ I said, ‘A but gloomy does not cover it! I can hardly see!’

“ He frowned at me, but we got on swiftly with our conversation, and I now have myself a rather good position with him in his business, managing a hundred or so workers. I would enjoy it, if the workhouse wasn’t so bloody dark.

“ Either way, I now sit here in the comfort of my candlelight, and I wonder whether or not it would be reasonable to bring a lantern with me on my travels. I should sure hope so.

“ August 4th, 1845

“ It seems almost impossible that it could get any darker, but here we are! It is almost like night out there. I should hope that the business owners would come up with something to dispel this awful, choking smog that covers the sun and snuffs out its brilliant light. I’m certain that that is the cause of this. I have always worried about that, with those tall chimneys belching out their horrid smoke.

“ I decided to bring my lantern with me on my journey, and was surprised to see that not only was nobody else deciding to follow suit, and many were even casting me strange looks, as if I was mad to bring a light source with me in times as dark as these. I do not see it as such.

“ I also brought up my concerns with Summers, and he asked if I needed my eyes checked. I said that I did not, and I certainly do not have the funds to afford a trip to my local doctor, the repulsive and greedy man he is. I have enough trouble purchasing all these candles to be able to see the page I write on. ”

Jonathan paused, gazing at the next two pages, which were covered in a massive splash of a dark liquid that wasn’t ink, but he did not Know what it was, other than it was not ink. And the writing was no longer ink either from this point on.

“ September 6th, 1845

“ I apologise for not writing more, I have only just managed to light enough candles to stave away the suffocating dark that encapsulates my life now. I can only hope that it keeps away whatever has been stalking me all this time.

“ The blackness is ever present now, always coming closer, always thicker and darker, like a blanket that sinks down to smother a child in their bed. It fills every part of me now, I breathe it instead of air, I drink it instead of ale, I eat it instead of food. It seeps into every pore of my skin, and drips into my ears, filling my skull with a hundred different ideas of its perfect completeness.

“ No light can keep it away for long. Candles sputter out after a while, lanterns die eventually. I can only hope my little bastion of light can save me from this hell.

“ The people at work started calling me, ‘The Man with all the Candles’ because I don’t go anywhere without several candles lit in the room I’m in, or my trusty lamp with me. I don’t understand how they can work in this awful, choking darkness. It smothers everyone, and it is very close to smothering me.

“ And I fear now, that something is stalking me through this. It is horrible, and many legged, and drips a horrid, stagnant liquid that feels like coal pitch. My hands are covered in it, and I’m sure there is no longer ink to write with. I can hear it now, scurrying through my house on many skittering legs, the horrid wet sounds of it sniffing for me, and I can only hope my small sanctuary can keep it at bay.

“ For I have never seen it. I can only guess what it is, some unholy creature from the black pits of hell, wanting to drag me down for sins I did not commit. I pray every day to our Lord and saviour, and hope that He does not judge me too harshly for being unable to read His holy words. His divine light shall purge this creature and I shall rest in Heaven, where this beast can no longer find me.

“ Summers is worried for me, I know that. I suppose that he is like the rest and can see through the darkness as if it is daylight. He does not see that I cling with desperation to candle and lamp-light alike, trying not to be caught alight and find my death in burning flames. For God knows I am no suicide.

“ One of the candles just went out. I can hear it close now. To all my family, I am so, so sorry. I do not know what I have done to deserve this fate, and I hope no one else has to suffer the same fate as what will surely befall me at the hands of this beast.

“ May the Lord take in my soul, and may my rest be easy and free of this suffocating darkness. ”

The page ended with the end covered in a large spray of dark ink. Or coal pitch. But it wasn’t either.

Hank Newton had been found in his Birmingham house, in a room full of the burnt out stumps of candles. The room had also been covered in something deemed to be coal pitch, and Newton was similarly covered. He’d been lying on his back, his mouth open in a scream, his eyes milky and unseeing, and his insides full of the same sticky coal pitch. But it was not coal pitch, or ink.

It was pure, distilled darkness. What more it was, Jonathan did not Know.

The Dark had always been a blind spot for him.

Chapter Text

Jonathan Knew Meritt was mad at him before he even approached the desk. He’d felt it smouldering in the back of his mind ever since he’d emerged from the storage cupboard, and carefully returned Newton’s journal to its correct drawer, then continued working until he’d finished labelling, resisting the call of many more tasty morsels for the time being. As ravenous as he was, he did need to show some manner of restraint.

He did return to his desk eventually, deciding it was time for some actual lunch, and write up his own set of notes. He had been recording, and since a lot of the latter half of Newton’s account had been covered with a great array of smudges and splashes, he assumed it might be fruitful to keep a fresh copy for reference.

And of course, it seemed like that did not matter to Meritt at that time.

“Jonathan.” he said curtly, “Can you please explain to me why you locked yourself into the supply closet approximately… two hours ago?”
“Two hours and forty-three minutes ago.” Jonathan corrected, “Almost three by that mark. And I think I’ve made it very clear that I work better alone.”

“Really.” Meritt said, leaning down so Jon could smell the coffee on his breath, “Because I’m sure you’ve been working on labelling since then.”

Damn it Jon, think of something.

“I was.” Jonathan said, “But Sandy asked me to look over the journal of Hank Newton, since there isn’t any clear transcripts of what was written.”

The lie felt dry and ashen on his tongue. He didn’t want to drag his co-workers into his justification, but out of all people, Meritt was the one who absolutely couldn’t know.

“Is there really?” Meritt said.

“Yes,” Jonathan said, ‘There is, of course, a handful of good guesses, particularly for the last entry, but Sandy wanted me to cast a fresh eye over it.”

“And you’re so good at deciphering smudged and stained text?”

“Yes. I- I hope so at the very least. And- and I at least had a good shot at it, and you can compare it with the others later if you so wish.”

“Mm,” Meritt said, “Now, this still does not explain you slinking away into the darkness to do this work.”

“I- I need to read it aloud.” Jonathan said, which, wasn’t false, “It, helps me get a feeling for the flow of the words, what- what would come next in normal speech, what- what feels right, y’know?”

“No, no I don’t know .” Meritt snorted, “If all your work is based on ‘feelings’ I can hardly imagine what it's like. I will be checking over your translations of the Journals of August Rettig, Andrés Felipe Martinez, Victor Palmondon, and Silas Baier.”

“Fine, go ahead.” Jonathan said, with a slight sigh.

“And Jonathan.” Meritt said, as he turned to walk off.

“Yes, sir.”

“Need I remind you your official title is Archival Assistant. ”

“Of course, sir.”

Meritt snorted, something like satisfaction flashing in his eyes as he walked off.

Jonathan considered calling after him, asking him why he was like this, but he held himself back. Things like that could get messy, fast. And he was doing so well. He was sure he hadn’t accidentally compelled someone in months, so he reckoned he was doing very well in settling back into being a normal person. Normal enough anyways.

Of course, even with that small note of pride at his restraint, came the guilt of lying. He had just thrown Sandy under the bus to cover for an ugly truth he didn’t want to reveal. He could have just said he’d wanted to decipher it for himself, and instead he’d pointed fingers to direct the wolf from his door to his neighbour’s.

God damn it.

He should, go apologise. But- God, what would he say? It was best to just leave it be, and hope that it wouldn’t blow up in his face. Why was everything so bloody complicated sometimes?

He’d just. Wait.

That should be fine. Meritt might just- forget about this in his focusing on Jonathan’s ‘emotional investment’ in his translations or whatever bullshit he was going to call this.

He needed a break. And a cigarette.

He had been trying to quit again. He didn’t need something the Web could use to further spin him around its proverbial fingers, chittering about how it had won all along, but sometimes, it gave him a good excuse to separate himself from a situation he needed to step back and process, and right now, he really needed that.

Now, of course, he didn’t carry the cigarette lighter that held a figment of its power, that had been left on the other side, now probably inert and useless, or maybe it was somewhere in the rubble of Hilltop Road. Instead he had a cheap, plastic lighter, the kind you threw away once you were done and saw nothing more of it. It did the job, and as he was, for all intents and purposes, quitting, that was all it needed to do.

Either way, he found himself in the small space that was accessible for staff of the museum who did still smoke.

He made it clear to himself that it was just this one, just to calm down, just to give himself a little space for the five minutes or so it took to smoke it.

He wasn’t alone out there, as he fumbled with the lighter to get it to work. There was also Floris, one of the people who did day security, and someone Jonathan could call a ‘comfortable stranger’. They knew each other’s names, they smiled, awkwardly, at each other if they saw each other, but mostly didn’t do much else. Of course, Jonathan did Know much more about Floris than Floris knew about him.

He Knew that Floris had three kids and a loving wife named Helma, with his three kids being Timothy, Theresia and Lie. He Knew he’d emigrated from Holland in the past two years, and that he worried that his kids were settling in well. He Knew Floris’ birthday, favourite colour, favourite drink, the fact he was bi, but hadn’t figured it out himself. It was all a blend of impersonal and personal, and Jonathan kept his mouth shut. He didn’t know Floris that well, after all.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?” Floris said lightly, his voice tinged with his accent.

Jonathan nodded, casting his gaze up to the clear blue sky. Still no rain. It was likely to rain tomorrow, but not today. Today was clear blue skies and bright sunshine.

It was pleasantly warm as well, but that didn’t stop Jonathan from wearing a heavy brown jacket with a fleece lining. It was a very nice jacket.

He took a long, slow drag, letting the burn of smoke fill his lungs, before sighing it all out again. He could feel the beginnings of a headache press on his temples, and he took another long drag.

After about two minutes, Floris left.

“You have a good day Jonathan.” he said, as he crushed the butt of his own cigarette under his heel.

“You too.” Jonathan called after him, though his heart wasn’t in it.

He took another long drag, letting the smoke sit in his chest as he watched the glow of embers creeping slowly over the paper, and he Knew that in this spot, almost a hundred years ago, a man called Anderson Barton had been shot and killed, then robbed of all his possessions. He’d only been twenty-five.

Jonathan released the breath, letting the smoke rush out between his teeth, before flicking away the cigarette and stamping it out under foot.

Chapter Text

“Another statement today?” Martin asked, handing Jon a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup.

“Mm, oh, yes?” Jon said, sliding the laptop carefully onto the coffee table, “Someone getting stalked by a creature of the Dark after being followed by impenetrable darkness that only he could see.”

“Hm,” Martin said, “Doesn’t that-”

“Crossover with the Spiral? Yes, in some ways. And yes, the Spiral came in nearly a hundred years later when everyone started doing LSD and listening to ‘vibes’ and what not, but the fears have, and always will, bleed into each other. It was still a very Dark statement.”

“Aren’t all of them dark?” Martin said with a smile.

“Martin.”

“Come on, it was a good joke.” Martin laughed as he settled down, “And they are all pretty dark, at the end of the day.”

“I know.” Jon said, “And it was not a good joke.”

“Oof, tough crowd tonight then.” Martin said, “Something, happen today.”

“I- I threw someone under the bus to cover for me.” Jon sighed, taking a tentative spoonful.

“Like, literally or-”

“Not literally Martin, I just- I said that Sandy had asked me to look over the journal, because the last pages were smudged, as is to be expected when you’re writing in pure darkness itself.”

“Riiight, was that a good idea to read then?”

“Not- not really.” Jon said, “I’ll probably be fine. Its effects are weak at best, and using the Eye’s power to decipher something of the Dark usually means that some of its power, some of its strength, is sapped. It only really becomes an issue if you obsess over it.”

The fates of several people who’d tried to decipher the journal flashed through their mind. All found with that same coal-pitch darkness dripping from their mouths and eyes. It occurred to them now that they had just read from a Leightner, or- a book of power. They, they really needed a better term for that didn’t they?

Now they wondered, madly, if they had called the same fate upon themself, and the Eye assured them in that moment that it would not. The effects only fell on those that spent so much mental space on the contents of the book, of trying to tug forth the unknowable into the light where it did not belong. Jon knew well enough to leave the creature of the Dark in the suffocating, pitch blackness where they came from, as to know them was to call upon their wrath. Did not mean their curiosity and imagination didn’t dwell on the scant description, conjuring up horrid images of some oozing beast with hundreds of spider-like legs.

But that’s where the Dark got its fear, the fundamental rule of horror; never show your monster, let the human mind twist and bend around it to create something simply more horrifying. That’s where it wound its tentative grasp into the Stranger’s territory, and where the Eye could cut it the deepest.

“You’re thinking too hard about it.” Martin gently prodded, swallowing a spoonful of his own soup.

“Mm?” Jon said, turning to look over at Martin.

“You get this far away look when you’re thinking about something too much.” Martin said, “Like your, peering at a crack only you can see. Which to be fair, you probably can.”

“Mm,” Jon said, “I- I guess you’re right. I suppose- I suppose thinking is all I have. Worrying about petty disputes when- when before your life was on the line…”

“It feels weird, yeah.” Martin sighed, “And everytime your around people who don’t know you just want to, I don’t scream, jump on a table and tell them that, hey, this all doesn’t matter because we’re all food for some unholy eldritch fear god at the end of the day.”

“Not quite how that works.” Jon said, “Some people are just… inherently less fearful than others, and that’s not our sole purpose in life, really-”

“There’s a delightfully optimistic point from you.”

“I’m not being optimistic, I’m being pragmatic, there’s a difference. It just so happens that being pragmatic involves acknowledging that people aren’t born to feed the fears. The fears just, are, and they just so happen to feed off us.”

“Alright, alright.” Martin laughed, “You’ve made your point. And I hoooope, mine did as well.”

“Yes, yes it did Martin.” Jon said, with a dry chuckle, before staring into their bowl and stirring it absent-mindedly, “What’s it like? Ignorance? Not- not Knowing?”

“I don’t know.” Martin said, “I’ve never- I’ve never thought about it. I mean, I know the Eye-”

“Not anymore.” Jon said, “You were only ever strenuously connected to it, by the end, you more so belonged to the Lonely than anything else, I think the only reason you came through with me was because we ended up being so tightly wound together, and, the Web seems to enjoy toying with connections like that. The Eye no longer holds as much providence over you as it once did, which is why you- well.”

They couldn’t think too hard about the dreams. The same, horrible loop, cut down to a single vignette. They could feel the itch in their bones as they thought about it, that horrible, oozing fear.

“Yeah,” Martin said with a sigh, “I suppose- I suppose that makes sense. But, if I dedicate myself more to the Eye would that…?”

“Not entirely sure.” Jon said, “I think, it would be a gradual process, if you did. You’d probably gain more control in the dream, then eventually be able to leave it if you wished. I think avatars, full, proper avatars who know what they are, are able to do that.”

“So, I’m in luck then.”

“I suppose you are.” Jonathan said, “It just… depends if you want to become a full avatar.”

Martin paused, and Jon could tell he was genuinely considering it.

Eventually, he spoke again.

“No, I’m, I’m not sure if I’d want that.”

“Yeah, I, I thought as much.” Jon sighed, “I just- need to know your- you’re alright, with it?”

“It’s horrible Jon,” Martin said, “But it’s fine. You- I forgot that I gave you a statement in person until the- the dreams. And you couldn’t have known I’d get cut off from the Eye. And this way, I get to see you every night.”

“But it's not, it's not the same.” Jon huffed, “I can’t do anything to stop it. And I feel useless . I just- I’ve been given all this power, and I can’t control it , and I feel so, so useless .” they gave a humourless chuckle, “I’ve tasted the forbidden fruit of power, and when I’m cast from that horrible garden of fear, I’m lost.”

“Ooo, biblical allusions, we’re feeling dangerous today.”

“Martin.”

“Look, I’m not letting you wallow in your self-pity for longer than five minutes.” Martin said, waving his spoon in their direction, “Because honestly, I like you better when you’re not being horrible about yourself.”

“Martin,” Jon said, though they weren’t quite sure what to say, it was reassuring, and they Knew it was completely utterly sincere, but to them it felt hollow, “I’m fine, really.”

“No you are not.” Martin said, “I know you’ve gotten used to the whole, mysterious prophet of a doomed world thing, but the world isn’t doomed, the worst that can happen now is a handful of hurried, failed rituals.”

“Rituals that will still kill hundreds, Martin,” Jon said, “Even if they fail, everyone but the few powerful avatars will be- burnt out. A collapsing ritual will still kill all the people used as batteries, everyone involved and-” the words suddenly caught in their throat, “The Dark staged a ritual a few months ago.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Martin laughed, “A ritual? How- how did it fail then?”

“Collapsed under its own weight, like the last one.” Jon said, leaning their head back, “The Dark would have been strong enough to do it, yes, but it’s too entangled now, maybe forty years ago before the Stranger fully pulled itself into the picture, but even then it has links to so many of the other fears. The Hunt, the End. But the- the people who worship it, they’re, they’re blaming the Eye. Or- or some other power coming into being that stopped them.”

“Oh.” Martin said, “Are- are we in danger then?”

“No.” Jon sighed, “They sit and they fester in that rage. They are not equipped to know what it is they serve. This world is even more blind to the fears than ours was, so even devout servants have no clue what they are really doing. All they know is that they cause fear, and that fear feels good . And the Eye had nothing to do with the ritual. As much as the Dark’s work of obscuring what is there and letting the mind try to think what is there and the Eye’s opposing force of ripping everything bare and clear to see… it is too weak to deal with the sheer blackness the Dark had managed to manifest. The fears are, fundamentally, unbalanced, some swollen and full, others weak and shrivelled, drawing on their neighbours’ pre-existing terror where they cross to sustain themselves as they push their talons into the world to hunt for their own, stupefied at their sudden fall… I’m rambling, sorry.”

“No, no.” Martin said, “It’s really interesting actually. If, learning about the mechanics of the horrid fear entities can be called entertaining.”

“You just like listening to me talk, don’t you?”

“So what if I do?” Martin said, his face flushing a bright shade of pink, “You have a really nice voice. And, I don’t know, I like seeing you just- talking. Not the statements, just, you.”

“Hm,” Jon said, a warm feeling creeping through their chest, “Would you like me to keep going?”

“Yes,” Martin said, “Yes I would.”

“Hm,” Jon said, “I’m not sure what to talk about. It’s kind of, spontaneous. Like a question, a piece of information leads to a cascade of another, and then another and then another. A chain reaction of sorts. Which is true of all knowledge I suppose. It relies on each other to make sense of itself, concepts knit together, define themselves off others - you can’t have the Buried without the Vast - no up without down, no left without right, you can’t have something not make sense without having a set of rules that you followed previously and- hm, there we go.”

“I swear, you could turn anything into a ten minute monologue.” Martin laughed, “And I would listen. Is that, is that depressing?”

“It means that you love me.” Jon said, with a smile, “And honestly, I do like being able to talk like that without having to- to stop.”

“And I find that a wonderful thing.” Martin said, “Now, could you give me a full lecture on the physics of clouds.”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I just want to know about clouds.”

Jon laughed, before they began to run into their explanation. Martin was close, he didn’t judge them, he didn’t blame them, he just listened. And that was the best feeling.

Chapter Text

It rained on Tuesday. A thin, misty drizzle that coated everything in a slick coat of water, leaving the soft surface of the jumper Jonathan was wearing coated in tiny, reflective beads of gleaming water, and his hair slightly damp. The warmth of the previous day had been stripped, but it wasn’t an unpleasant chill. It helped him wake up as he walked to work, one in many of the morning rush.

He also took solace in the brightness of the morning, despite the rain. Everything was white and steely grey, which meant he wasn’t going to be hunted by some beast of darkness without his immediate knowledge.

He eventually stepped into the dry, warm hall of the museum, nodding mildly to Milton, one of the receptionists, before heading to the archives, pushing open the door as he switched off his music.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said with a sigh, “Tube was delayed, forgot to turn on my alarm last night, you know how it is.”

“No reason to explain it.” Rowan said, “Meritt’s late as well. We have been here for twenty minutes, doing nothing.”

“Oh,” Jonathan said, “He’s not, usually late.”

Late trains. The line Meritt usually took was currently twenty minutes behind.

“Well, he is now.” Sandy said, “And, do you mind if we talk briefly Jon?”

“Oh,” Jonathan said, realising with a sinking feeling what this was about, “Yes, that’s, that’s fine.”

“Cool.” Sandy said, trotting over to a more secluded part of the archives, Jonathan following her, and eventually coming to a halt.

“Alright,” she said, “Now, I’m fine with you scurrying away to the storage cupboard to do, whatever it is you do in there, but I don’t like you using me as a fall-man for you, without my knowledge.”

“Right, yes, sorry.” Jonathan said, “I- it was a stupid thing to do in hindsight. I should have just- said what I was- my excuse without- without involving you.”

“Mm,” Sandy said, “Look, I’m not mad, okay. Don’t get all jittery on me.”
“I am not jittery.” Jonathan said sharply, burrowing his hands in his pocket from where he’d been fiddling with his ring.

“Yeah, sure you aren’t.” Sandy said with a laugh, “You are the jumpiest guy I know, you know that right?”

“That’s not exactly quantifiable-” Jonathan stammered, and it wasn’t, the kind of knowledge the Eye just, shrugged vaguely at. It couldn’t hold comparative knowledge, it seemed.

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” Sandy said, “You walking encyclopaedia of a man.”

“Sandy, for the last time-”

“Fine, fine.” Sandy chuckled, “Look, you can’t come to me explaining the complexities of mid-eighteenth-century politics in Poland like you were standing on the sidelines as they were discussing and not expect me to call you a walking, physical manifestation of wikipedia.”

“Wikipedia has its flaws.” Jonathan pointed out, “As is the nature of most community driven pieces of information. Hearsay is likely to slip in-”

“Look, look, there you go.” Sandy said, “I say something, you scramble over yourself to add to it.” she laughed, before placing a hand on his shoulder, “Word of advice, learn to shut up. I mean that in a good way. Not everything is a personal attack, m’kay? No need to spring into long diatribes because somebody got a fact wrong. You’re a nice guy, really, you just happen to come off… confrontational at times.”

“I do not! Do I?”

“Mm,” Sandy said, “When you’re not dodging the question entirely.”

“Right, right, can we get back on track?” Jonathan stammered.

“Sure, sure.” Sandy said with a shrug, “Anyways, don’t use me to cover for whatever bizarre thing it is you do in the storage cupboard, and we’re golden, cool?”

“Yes,” Jonathan said, “That is fine.”

“Alright,” Sandy said, patting Jonathan’s shoulder a little harder than he’d like, before trotting back to the group, pushing herself into the conversation that Rowan and Curtis were having as easily as if she’d been there from the beginning.

He sighed, and slowly crept over towards his desk, and slid down into his chair. As much as he enjoyed the cleansing cold of the rain, it brought out all of the aches and pains in his bones, which ranged from old wounds, to the beginnings of arthritis, even at his young age. Probably exasperated by, again, getting dragged out of two collapsed buildings within a two year time span.

In any case, he probably needed about ten minutes to rest, and let the heat creep back into him. He hadn’t exactly had the most pleasant of sleeps the night prior, with the anxiety of lying about Sandy chewing in his gut, and their upstair neighbours arguing again - they were finally getting that divorce, and honestly, good riddance - that and getting up at two o’clock to stalk circles in their living to try and wear himself out enough that he would just, go to sleep for once in his life, which had left his leg particularly sore today.

He was halfway through re-organising his desk for the third time this month when Curtis came up to him, leaning over and asked.

“Okay, weird question,” he began, “But do you have any like, weird facts about you? Like, like Areinne apparently has three of her toes fused together, and- and Rowan was really close to being a conjoined twin-”

“I beg your pardon?” Jonathan said, with a slight laugh. He’d Known about the twin thing for a while, but wasn’t entirely sure what to throw into the conversation.

I am covered in constantly watching, staring, supernatural eyes? I cannot physically die in any true, meaningful way? Any of the long list of reasons for various scars?

“Oh, yeah,” Curtis stammered, “Basically, uh, apparently, he and his brother, you know, Kegan? So, they’re identical twins, and they shared a placenta in the womb or something, which I’d say is, pretty cool.”

“Yes, yes it is.” Jonathan said, trying to sound invested, “I suppose, I only have twenty-two ribs?”

He would have said twenty-three, if he hadn’t lost the other rib somewhere in the old world, likely in the rubble of the Magnus Institute. He couldn’t feel it, or See it, in either regard.

“Wait, really?” Curtis said, “Another surprise there, alright, give me a second.”

He pushed off Jonathan’s desk, turning back to where the rest of the archival team were standing, passing on the information.

“Really?” Areinne said, looking over to Jonathan, “I mean, may I ask why? Or how? Either works really. Where you like, born without them or…?”

“No, I was born with the normal amount I just…” Jonathan stammered, then found that he had, once again, dug himself a hole he couldn’t scramble out of. What was a normal reason a person would have ribs removed? Most of the time it was the kind of bone people would do anything to keep, so unless something really bad happened to those bones specifically, “Look, it’s a long story, and it’s too early to really get into it right now.”

“Alright, alright,” Areinne laughed, “But, this didn’t have anything to do with the cult, did it?”

“Yes, yes it did.” Jonathan said, “I’ll- I’m going to leave it at that.”

“Okay, cult?” Sandy said, “Why didn’t I hear about this sooner?”

Jonathan snorted, tuning them out as they broke away into chatter. He’d probably have to explain it more thoroughly at some point, yes, but today was not that day. He just turned back to his desk, and kept rearranging.

It was about two minutes later than Meritt came in, brushing water off his suit lapels and glaring at them as he came in, as was customary at this point.

“I know I may be late,” he said, in a calm, cold voice, “But I do expect you to still be working. Get to it.”

The conversation died off with a few begrudging laughs, but soon enough, they all drifted away to do their various tasks for another long, relatively uneventful day.

Chapter Text

Jon awoke the next day with Martin staring expectantly at them, a faint smile on his lips.

“Wha-” Jon asked, suppressing a yawn, “What is it Martin?”

“Guess what day it is.”

“It’s April fourth.”

“Yes, and what day is that?”
“Martin come on,” Jon laughed, burying their face into Martin’s chest.

“It’s your birthday.” Martin said, before sitting up and sliding out of bed, “C’mon, I’m making you pancakes.”

“Really?” Jon said, sitting up, “You- you really don’t have to.”

“It’s your special day.” Martin pointed out, “I can treat you.”

“Seriously.” Jon said, with a laugh.

“Damn, guess I’ve got to cancel that date I planned, I was really looking forward to it.”

“Alright, alright.” Jon chuckled fondly, carefully getting out of bed and stretching, their shoulder popping audible as they did.

“You alright there?” Martin asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jon muttered, rubbing their shoulder, “Nothing life-threatening, just, normal joint stuff.”

“Alright,” Martin chuckled then switching to a more serious tone, “Can’t blame me though, I think your limp is getting worse, not better.”

“I’m fine, really Martin.” Jon said, though their leg was stiff this morning, so they were limping a bit more than they usually did.

“If you say so.” Martin said quietly as Jon passed him.

Jon, didn’t blame him, not really. Martin had been there for them as they’d healed, slowly but surely, from the damage the fall of the Panopticon had done to them. Back when their discharge had been strongly discouraged by hospital staff, and Martin insisted it was better if they went home early.

The days where they couldn’t leave bed due to the pain of still healing joints and bones, the constant dizzy spells from pining, agonising hunger that stripped what fat they’d built up during their time in the apocalypse, and through all that, Martin had been there.

Jon knew he would be, of course, but, still, some part of them at that time had still struggled to understand why. Why would Martin want to stick around after everything they’d done? They’d betrayed his trust, their promise, why did he still care for them so deeply? Sometimes those thoughts still plagued them, but they pushed them aside. Nothing had changed. Martin knew Jon well enough to know they would have done something so rash, so stupid, to think themself worthy to slowly end a world they’d already doomed. They could never tell if it was comfort, or a wound that still bled even after it had long joined the tapestries of scars on their chest.

Either way, they found themself in the kitchen, resting against one of the cabinets as Martin got to making breakfast.

“So,” he said, handing Jon a cup of tea, “It’s your day. What do you want to do, or are you just going along with whatever I have planned?”

“I think you know the answer to that.” Jon said, “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I managed to get us a reservation at a nice restaurant, and you know, we haven’t had a proper, fancy date, so I thought we might as well, given it's a special occasion and all.”

“Can we, afford that?” Jon asked, taking a sip from their drink.

“Right now, yeah.” Martin said, “I’ve been saving up for a while now, and I thought that we deserved to treat ourselves for once in our lives. Henceforth.”

“You-”

“Jon,” Martin said, with a jokingly warning tone, “Look, I can treat you to something special. And today is a special occasion, you are now one year older.”

“One year closer to the inevitability of death more like.”

“That’s the spirit.” Martin laughed, as he set out a mixing bowl and carefully weighed out the correct amount of flour.

“You really don’t have to do this, you know.” Jon said, looking up to Martin.

“I know I don’t.” Martin said, carefully measuring out two cups of milk, “But who’s going to keep you alive without me?”

“I can do that myself.”

“Mm, evidence says to the contrary.” Martin said, “I know you, get an idea, and no matter how stupid it is you’ll run off and do it.”

That felt like a stab to the gut.

“Look, Martin I’m sorry-”

“Oh, oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that-”

“No- no- I should’ve-”

“No- no really- I-”

“It’s fine- It’s fine really-”

“No- No really. I- I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

They fell into awkward, uncomfortable silence, Jon nervously rubbing their arm and looking off.

“We’re… going to have to talk about it at some point.” Martin said, looking over to them, “You know that.”

“I know,” Jon said, “Just- not now. I’m- I just… I don’t know.”

“In your own time.” Martin said with a sigh, “I-” he sighed again, “It’s not your fault.”

“It was.” Jon said, “If I just Known.”

“But you didn’t, and you can’t change that.” Martin sighed, “We did the right thing in the end. And it didn’t turn out so bad. Do you think any grand ritual of the powers is going to happen anytime soon?”

“No.” Jon admitted, “The next would be the Corruption. And well, the Corruption is the Corruption, it finds a foothold and spreads. No grand ritual, just a ton of sporadic smaller ones, all trying to find a way to open up a gateway large enough to let the rot and poison drip into the world. But it will never work.”

“Mm,” Martin said, “So, unlikely anyone will make their own Archivist and try to end the world anytime soon?”

“Something like that, yes.” Jon sighed, “I’m the only vessel, and- well, you need the Eye as the focal point, and it is… ravenous at this point. Starved. It was- it was never one to create many monsters beyond Archivists, and since it is now the new kid on the block, so to speak, it’s got the least pickings when it comes to bleeding through. And I can feel that hunger.”

“I know, I know.” Martin said, beginning to whisk the batter together now, “Tell you what, I’ll get you a nice, fresh statement after dinner tonight. Something posted in the past couple of days. Or weeks if I can’t manage that.”

“I wouldn’t mind that actually.” Jon said with a tired smile, “Not sure what would be best, but whatever you can get your hands on I suppose.”

“And I’ll hopefully find something you can really sink your teeth into.” Martin said, with a grin, “Just you see.”

“Yeah,” Jon chuckled, “Yeah.”

The silence that followed was awkward, yes, but slightly more comfortable. Martin hummed softly as he carefully began moving the pancake batter into the pan.

“Don’t think we have any cream,” he said, flipping over one of the pancakes, “But we do have syrup. And some leftover chocolate sauce that might still be in date.”

“That stuff is full of preservatives Martin,” Jon said, “We’ll be fine, unless anything has started growing in it. Which it hasn’t for the record. You’re very good at making sure we have no mould in our fridge.”

“Because the only mould that should be in our fridge is the edible stuff in blue cheese.” Martin said, “Anything else is a health hazard.”

“I know, I know.” Jon said, “Just, God, I still remember the state this place was in when we got here.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “Had to rent the AirBnB down the road to make sure you didn’t get sick from the damn stuff. Should’ve known! The bloody landlord I swear.”

“Me scaring him into helping us is still on the cards by the way.”

“I know it is.” Martin huffed, “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You never know.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Martin said, “Now, do you want syrup or not?”

“Yes, I’ll have syrup.”

Martin made a noise of idignant triumph, carefully pouring a decent amount of syrup onto the pancakes, handing Jon the plate with a fork.

“Bon Appetite.” he said proudly, before turning to make his own.

Jon chuckled, before carefully beginning to eat. The pancakes themselves were just about the right texture, somewhere between fluffy and stodgy, but not rubbery or overcooked. They were just slightly sweet, mostly having the dull, glutinous taste a lot of food had, but the sharp, caramel sweetness of the syrup certainly masked it.

In short, not the best, but certainly not the worst either. It was the thought that counted.

They ate together in relative silence, before Martin tidied up the dishes into the sink, sighing when he was done.

“Alright,” he said, “Work.”

“Work.” Jon said, nodding, “The bane of our existence.”

“You’re a workaholic at heart, don’t kid yourself.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Maybe I’m right, I am right.”

“Fine, fine.”

They got changed into their work clothes, which in Jon’s case, was a long-sleeved shirt with a cardigan over the top (today it was a nice sage green colour), with the addition of their favourite jacket, the fur-lined one that was a soft shade of natural tan. There was also the dull grey trousers that weren’t so tight they were restricting, but not to loose around the ankles to become distracting.

“Do you want me to braid your hair today?” Martin asked, carefully buttoning up his work shirt.

“Do we, have time for that?” Jon asked, glancing at the clock as they carefully pulled on the pair of silk gloves they’d worn since the burn on their palm had fully healed.

“Yeah,” Martin said, “It’s about eight o’clock now, and you only need to leave at eight thirty.”

“If the tube isn’t delayed.”

“Is it?”

“Not today, luckily.” Jon chuckled, before looking over to Martin, “Why not.”

They settled down on the edge of the bed, letting Martin sit behind them as they turned to look at the morning light filtering through the blinds. The view from the window wasn’t a good one, really, just the street below and into the apartment complex across the street, but that view was scored into Jon’s mind. They could close their eyes and tell you ever exact detail of it if they wished. They could even tell you some of the regulars.

The thin, dark haired woman who would always stand at outside the building two down at six o’clock every night, smoking a cigarette. The balding man who always came home with his kid riding on his shoulders, a tired joy etched into his face. The group of teens that would drift by every Friday evening after school, drinking and smoking behind the bins. The mutiple people who passed through twice a day, walking their dogs, the one that always stuck out in their mind being the nice women with the husky that smiled at them when she passed them.

“Thinking about something?” Martin asked, as he carefully braided Jon’s hair.

“Yeah, just, reminiscing.” Jon said, “I know the view from that window so well at this point. It’s… strangely comforting.”

“Mm,” Martin said, “I mean, I haven’t really had time to pay attention to it for long. Jan is… mm, sometimes, I think she believes that we are all emotionless machines that don’t get tired or need food.”

“Better than a boss who hates your guts.” Jon said, “I swear, Meritt is looking for a way to fire me.”

“And are you giving him a reason.”

“Of course not.” Jon said, “I need this job. Next nearest open archivist position is in bloody Manchester.”

“Yeah, and we cannot move again.” Martin laughed, “Let alone half-way across the country.”

“Mhm,” Jon said, carefully crossing their legs, “How’s- how’s the shoulder by the way?”

“Hm?”
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have- I just-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Martin said, “It’s- it’s fine. It’s getting better with the warmer weather. It’s not- it could be worse.”

“Right.” Jon said, as Martin finished braiding their hair, and they carefully slung it over their shoulder, “Just- take care, alright? I don’t- I don’t want you agitating it or anything.”

“Same goes for you and your leg.” Martin said, poking Jon’s shoulder.

“Fine, fine, I’ll be careful.” Jon laughed, as they picked up their ring and slid it onto their finger.

“You better be.” Martin said, standing up.

Jon chuckled, rolling their eyes as they stood up.

“I should get going soon.”

“Soon? In twenty minutes, yes.”

“And what do you suggest we do with the time, hm?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Martin huffed, “Talk. You can rattle on at me for twenty minutes about whatever you want- anything really.”

Jon huffed between their teeth, before a thought dawned on them.

“Martin- are you, scared? Of, of me leaving?”

Martin paused, blinking, before sighing. Maybe there was a slight grey about his face, or maybe Jon was projecting what they wanted to see onto him.

“Maybe I am.” Martin said with a sigh, “I just. Don’t want to- to fall back into the Lonely. And nobody at work pays attention to me, they just- they just brush me off most of the time. Like I’m a waste of breath, which I probably am- I mean, I’ve got no experience in finance and-”

“Martin.” Jon said, grabbing onto his hands and squeezing them, “Your not. I care about you, okay? And- I need you as much as you need me.”

“Yeah,” Martin said with a tired smile, and Jon sighed, before throwing their arms around him and pulling him close. He was still warm, still solid and present.

They stayed like that for a long while, curled up close to relish in the presence of the other, before Jon carefully pulled away, looking up to Martin.

“I can, stay home today. Tell Meritt I’m sick.”

“He would literally skin you alive from what you’ve told me.” Martin said, “Plus, I don’t think Jan’s heard the word ‘sick day’ being uttered in a three mile radius of her, like, ever.”

“Right.” Jon said, with a slight chuckle, wrapping their arms around their shoulders and rubbing their arms, “It- it would be nice, but you are right.”

“Yeah, and that sucks.” Martin said, stretching out his arms and wincing a little as he did.

“What did I say about that shoulder.”

“Shut-up.” Martin said with a smile.

“There we are.” Jon said, resting their head on Martin’s shoulder.

Martin rolled his eyes, before glancing at the clock.

“You, probably should get going.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Jon sighed, standing up. They quickly gathered their things, their phone, earbuds, the book they were currently reading, tucking them carefully into their satchel.

They gave Martin a quick kiss on the cheek before they left the room, casting a smile after them as they did.

Martin’s place of work was closer, so he often left about ten minutes later than Jon did. It was a comfortable cycle they’d gotten into, staggering their leave times off each other.

Either way, Jon slid on their boots, gave one final call that they were leaving, and headed on their way.

Chapter Text

There were three stray cats that lived around Jonathan’s street.

There was the small, grey tabby with the slightly battered ears that he’d named General Whiskers, who would always run up to greet him, meowing and begging for pets as he wound his way between Jonathan’s legs. And Jonathan would oblige for as long as he could before he had to go on his way again.

There was the massive black tabby tom, who sunbathed on the corner of the street, and who Jonathan had seen take on many other cats, who he called the Sergeant. The Sergeant rarely came up to him, but had seen him around enough to tolerate his presence and the occasional pet.

Lastly, there was the lithe, fawn tabby that was surprisingly well-bred for his position as a stray. Martin, after hearing Jon talk about him, had insisted that they call him Prince, and they had relented, so Prince it was. He was a lovely cat anyways, even if Jonathan didn’t see him around as often.

And today, it seemed all of them wanted to come say hi.

He heard the familiar meow coming from his right, and turned to see Prince trotting towards him, tail raised high as he came up to Jonathan, who stopped, letting the cat wind himself between his legs, before stooping and running his hand along their back.

“Hello darling,” he said, “Haven’t seen you around in a while, I hope you’ve been doing alright.”

Prince meowed in response, purring as he rubbed his skull along the side of Jonathan’s hand. This was one of the many times Jonathan wished that understanding animals did fall under the penchant of the Eye, but he presumed it was only because animals could rarely provide useful information, and thus, the Eye believed them unnecessary.

“Very interesting,” he said regardless, scratching under Prince’s chin, “You must have such an eventful little life, mustn’t you? And you take time to come say hi to me, don’t you?”

Prince meowed, before turning to look away over the street, ears pricked. He turned to look up at Jonathan one more time, before he was off, vanishing into a side alley.

Jonathan blinked, turning to see where the Sergeant was padding along the street, he turned to look at Jonathan, blinking slowly, then continuing on.

Jonathan smiled, shaking his head, before continuing on.

Almost immediately after that, General Whiskers came to trot up beside him, running his body along Jonathan’s and meowing happily.

“Hello,” Jonathan said, with a smile, dropping down to scratch behind the cat’s ears, “Coming to say hi? Is this the universe’s birthday gift for me, a visit from all my favourite furry friends.”

General Whiskers gave a purring meow, rubbing his head along Jonathan’s hands.

“Not a lot of time to stay right now.” Jonathan added, standing up, “I do need to get going.”

General Whiskers gave an annoyed meow, but began to walk alongside Jonathan as he continued down the street.

“Oh?” Jonathan laughed, “You want to come with me? Alright. Can’t take you down into the station, of course, but you can come with me to it.”

He continued down his way, General Whiskers trotting at his side, tail lifted high, head tilted towards Jonathan.

“Special day today.” Jonathan said, “My birthday. I told you that, didn’t I?” a meow in response, “I did, yes. Well, Martin’s going to take me out for dinner. I’ve told you about Martin, right?”

Another meow.

“Hm, well he’s my boyfriend.” Jonathan said, “Love him to bits.” he chuckled, “God this is sad.”

General Whisker gave another meow, sounding mildly offended, somehow.

“I’m talking to a cat.” Jonathan said, “Like I would I person.”

No response.

“See, even you know that.” Jonathan said, before coming to a stop, “Now you must go. Station is close, and I don’t want you getting hurt.”

General Whisker’s looked up to him, meowing again, and walking to wind between Jonathan’s legs.

“I know.” he said, leaning down to stroke the cat’s fur again, “But I have to go.”

General Whiskers meowed, but stood back, sitting at the edge of the pavement and began to groom his foreleg, then ears. Jonathan sighed, before he turned, and continued on his way.

He got to the Underground station fine, got on the Tube fine, and was soon heading quickly to work, and was in the Archives before nine. Exactly 08:58.

“Morning Jon!” Rowan called as he entered, “And happy birthday.”

“Mm?”

“Happy birthday,” Rowan said, “It’s your birthday. Thirty-five now.”

“I suppose so,” Jonathan said, as he settled at his desk.

“No,” Sandy said, “He is not thirty-five. There is no way he isn’t like- forty.”

“I am thirty-five, now, anyways.” Jonathan said, “I’ve just been under a lot of stress in my life, so I’ve begun to grey a little earlier.”

“Alright,” Sandy said, “You keep lying to yourself.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes, turning to his work.

Areinne came up to his desk, carefully placing an old journal on his desk.

“Sorry to bother you,” she said, “But, I thought, maybe, you could get a bit of a break, by doing another translation. You seem to like those.”

“Oh, I, uh, thank-you, Areinne.” Jonathan said, picking up the journal. It was in Spanish, and had no pull to it. Just an ordinary journal, nothing supernatural. A shame, yes, but Martin had promised him.

“No problem,” Areinne said, “You can take the day easy. It’s your birthday.”

“Well, er, thank-you.” Jonathan stammered again.

Areinne smiled, before wandering back off to her desk, leaving Jonathan with the journal. The thing was almost two hundred years old, and belonged to Adán Sepúlveda, who’d been a dock hand in Barcelona.

And thus began his work for the day. It was a lot slower to chew through than most translations did, spurred by the promise of a meal, while now it was just for work. It was something to pass the time with anyways. He’d read a statement, type up his translation as best as he could, then kept going.

It was also, as expected, boring dry, day to day discussions. Fascinating if you were looking into the development of Inter-Atlantic travel, shipping and transport, but Jonathan was not doing that. He took a break after every month of entries to read through the book that he’d begun to bring with him, an old biography on Robert Smirke.

It was interesting, somewhat. More interesting than the journal, at the least.

Meritt did pass by at one point, giving him a scrutinising glare.

“I didn’t take you as someone interested in architecture.”

“Mm,” Jonathan said, “Oh, yes. It’s- well.” he saw no point in lying about his reasons, they were reasonable enough, “It’s just, a lot of Robert Smirke’s architecture has been linked to various paranormal phenomena, and I find that quite interesting.”

“I see.” Meritt said, “So, do you think it’s real?”

“Hm?”

“The paranormal?”

“I, uh, some of it.” Jonathan said, “I think, some of it is probably real.”

Meritt narrowed his eyes. Jonathan felt something rise in his throat, a question, but shoved it down.

“Very well.” Meritt said sharply, “Just don’t let it bleed into your work. Your beliefs on whether or not it is real or not are not what I consider academic clarity. Understood.”

“Yes, sir.” Jonathan said, watching as Meritt left. Then got back to work, nothing better to do.

He took his break for lunch, decided that, yes, he should treat himself a little today, and went out to a nearby place for lunch. It was a nice enough place, not too expensive, for central London at least, but that did mean it was full of students from the local university, and several other museum staff.

The food was nice, took a while, yes, but it was busy, and was relatively fresh all things considered. He left a generous tip when he left. And tried to ignore the fact he knew one of the servers had a statement, and had to wrestle with himself to stop himself from calling them over. He was glad to be out of there in the end, even if he could feel the dull ache of hunger in the base of his chest.

Then, back to the archives, back to translating.

It seemed, luckily, that everyone had decided to leave him alone, so the next four or so hours of work were quiet, luckily. More boring translation, chipping away month by month, waning from 1832, to 1833, to 1834, there was one moment when Sepúlveda had brushed up against some avatar of the Web, but it had come to nothing, there was no real fear, just distaste.

Then, he was done. He checked over the translation, making sure he hadn’t made any typos at all, then picked up the journal and took it back to Areinne.

“Thanks Jon,” she said, as he placed it on her desk, “Wasn’t too bad I hope.”

“Oh, it was very dry.” Jonathan said, “Safe to say I wouldn’t want to meet Sepúlveda in person, sounds like a very… business-like person.”

“Oh, a lot of them were.” Areinne said, taking the journal back, “But, some poor student or historian has to make it their focus, I suppose.”

“Of course, of course.” Jonathan said, “I don’t envy them, that’s all.”

“Neither do I.” Areinne said, with a chuckle, “Now, you probably have things to do tonight, I presume?”

“Oh, yes, I believe I do.”

“Well, I wish you a good evening.” Areinne said, “And have fun. I think it will do you good.”

“Thank-you.” Jonathan said, before returning to his desk to gather his things. Then he left, heading home to prepare for the rest of his birthday celebrations.

Chapter Text

The restaurant they went to was something a little more expensive, definitely crossing into ‘fancy’ territory. Everything was dim, from the warm, hazy amber of the lights, to the muted chatter of the other tables. The sun was just beginning to set outside, bringing with it a light that was a soft, pinkish amber in colour. The whole scene was warm basked in red and gold decorations and the dark, mahogany brown of the furnishings.

The chair wasn’t the most comfortable, its back dug a little into Jon’s bony shoulders, and the cushioned seat might have once given any ghost of comfort, but they could not complain. It was a nice place, and the smell of cooking food was thick and delicious in the air.

“You, really didn’t have to.” Jon said, looking over to Martin as they nervously smoothed their trouser leg.

“Jon,” Martin said, “We’re here now, too late to turn back.”

“I know, I know,” Jon said, “I just. All this, for me?”

“Yes,” Martin said, “All this, for you. You’ve had a hell of a year, I can treat you.”

“Right, right, yes.” Jon said, still rubbing the top of their thighs to soothe themself, glancing around at the various patrons and servers.

“And for God’s sake Jon, calm down.” Martin said, “We’re fine.”

“I know, I know,” Jon said, wrapping their arms around themself to stop themself fidgeting.

“You look good,” Martin added.

“I, uh,” Jon stammered, glancing down at themself subconsciously. They were wearing an old, charcoal grey suit that didn’t quite fit them anymore. They’d bought it when they’d begun job hunting, hoping it made them seem more presentable, but after he’d gotten the job at the museum, it had remained crumpled under their bed until today. They’d spent a good thirty minutes smoothing it out before putting it on. On the other hand, they had spent a long time combing through their hair, and generally trying to make themself look nicer.

“Take the compliment Jon,” Martin said, as one of the waiter’s drifted by. Martin ended up ordering a bottle of cabernet wine for them to share, as well as a steak, medium rare, for himself. Jon had noticed that the place did duck, and settled for that, though they did request it more on the well done side. They were still a little twitchy around meat in general, but it had been a while since they’d had good duck.

“Did you uh, find something?” Jon asked once the waiter had left, and Martin blinked.

“A- a statement I mean.”

“Oh- oh, yes, I did.” Martin said, “Spent most of my lunch break on it actually. Now, I found a couple, one of them could just be a really bad acid trip, could also be a Spiral thing, it’s hard to tell in that regard.”

“It is.” Jon said, “Made more complicated by the fact the Spiral already preys on those with mental illnesses that make them predisposed to question their own reality. Something about, vicious cycles I suppose. You think the world isn’t real, and the Spiral feeds into that until you’re consumed.”

“Mental spirals.”

“Indeed.” Jon said, “I’ll have a look over it, see if its just someone who needs serious mental help, or someone targeted by the dark powers.”

“I mean, they’d need help either way.” Martin said, “Though, can you be saved from the Fears?”

“In ways, yes.” Jon said, “You and I know that well enough. Some are, harder than others is all.”

“Right,” Martin said, “Yeah- yeah I guess you’re right.”

The waiter returned, carefully setting down the bottle of wine and two wine glasses before leaving.

“So, aside from, gouging your own eyes out and- connecting with people in a meaningful and real way- is there anything else?” Martin asked, uncorking the bottle and pouring out a glass for him and then one for Jon.

“I suppose, you could reasonably counteract the Vast by thinking small. Realising you matter in the grand scheme of things. That you’re not insignificant. Obviously the Dark is knowing, understanding, the monster isn’t half as scary if you can see it, because then you can study it, understand it. Light, in that sense. The Web… sudden, unpredictable motion, going so drastically against anything that could be planned for that there’s no way to rearrange… I could go on.”

“Please do.” Martin said.

“I shouldn’t.” Jon said, “I feel like I’ve rambled to you enough.”

“Yes, and I like you rambling to me.” Martin said, “We’ve been over this.”

“Yes, yes I know,” Jon laughed, a little nervously. Part of their mind was trying to run a script that wasn’t quite true. It had been years since they went on a proper, real date at a place like this. They tried to remember if it had been with Georgie, or that one awkward relationship they’d had just after they joined the institute with someone else in research that fizzled out after about a month.

“Look, I’ll say this again,” Martin said, “Calm down, we’re not going to die, are we?”

“No,” Jon said, the only bit of information they were getting was about the complicated love life of one of the chefs, so as far as they were concerned they were probably fine, “I guess I’m just, used to that.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “And that’s- that’s not good.”
“It really isn’t.” Jon said with a laugh, “But you’re right, I should relax.”

“Actually,” Martin said, “I have a couple of gifts for you.”

“Martin-”

“Ah- ah, I don’t want to hear it, you are taking them, no ifs ands or buts, okay?” Martin said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket and pulling out two small boxes, each wrapped in brown paper.

Jon looked at them, a little taken aback, before picking up the larger of the two. It was heavy, and sat comfortably in Jon’s hand. They carefully teased away the paper, eventually revealing a black zippo lighter, the dark enamel cut over with intricate golden lines. It also had a stylized eye on both sides.

“Martin,” Jon said, “You, you really didn’t-”
“I know, I know,” Martin said, “But it was fifty quid at the charity shop and I just thought of you. It’s not like, secretly an object of power or something, is it?”

“No, no I don’t think so.” Jon said, as they flipped it open and sparked it. The flame emerged almost immediately.

“You know I’ve been trying to quit, right?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “But, you know, it wouldn’t hurt to have an ignition source, just in case you need to do some light, precautionary arson.”

“Martin, I’m not doing precautionary arson on-”

“I’m not saying you’re doing it on museum property, I’m just putting it out there.” Martin said, holding up his hands, before resting them on the table, nodding slightly to the other box.

Jon chuckled, setting down the lighter and picking up the other box, this one was lighter, a lot lighter. They cautiously opened it, revealing it was a box. No. Not a box, a ring case.

“Martin,” they asked, “Is this- is this a proposal ?”

“Oh, oh,” Martin stammered, his face sudden flushing, “I mean- I guess, if- if you want it to be- I didn’t- Sorry, I should have thought- I just-”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Jon said with a laugh, prying the case open, “Just- checking, that’s all.”

The ring inside was silver, studded with emeralds about half the way around, with an onyx stone studded in the center, ringed by more emeralds so it almost looked like an eye. Jon carefully took the ring out, and found it slid quite comfortably onto their index finger, as well as their ring finger.

“Do you, like it?” Martin asked.

“I think it’s wonderful Martin,” Jon said, eventually settling to leave it on their index finger, “Thank-you. Really. And for now, it’s nothing too big.”

“Yes, yes, that’s- that’s fine.” Martin said, “I’m glad you like it.”

“And, just for the record,” Jon said, “Is, marriage something you’d like, in the near future.”

“Maybe,” Martin said, “Maybe. I’m not- I don’t know.”

“Maybe is fine right now.” Jon said, “Maybe is fine.”

“Yeah,” Martin stammered, “Yeah, I guess it- I guess it is.”

Jon smiled, still fiddling with the ring, before setting their hands down on the table and looking up at Martin.

“Thank-you. You- you really didn’t have to. This- this whole thing. We could’ve just-”

“I know, I know.” Martin said, “I just- I want you to have something nice for once.”

“Martin,” Jon said, “I have you, and that’s enough.”

“I-” Martin said, his face flushing an even darker shade of red, “I think that- I think I can say the same.”

Jon smiled, looking over to Martin fondly. He met their gaze, and they stared at each other for a long time. Martin’s eyes were a soft, cloudy grey, the colour of the sky before it rained, and had a soft sparkle to them. His right eye also had a small speckle of sagey green on the edge of the iris, that nobody really noticed. But Jon did, that one spot of colour in the clear grey.

The water arrived suddenly at one point, carefully setting down their plates and telling them to enjoy, before vanishing.

Jon started a little, before carefully picking up their knife and fork, and beginning to eat. The duck was a little rarer than they would have liked, sure, but it was good. Succulent, richly flavoured, with the kind of sweet, salty sauce that these kinds of restaurants excelled at. The wine did go well with it, quite well. There was also the fact it came with the kind of excellently done potatoes that crumbled as soon as you cut them, but still had enough of a shell that had some level of crisp to them.

“You know,” Martin said at some point, “I have been thinking, we should go on a proper holiday at some point. Nothing big just, a few weeks to get away, somewhere in Wales maybe-”

“Or Scotland.”

“Or Scotland.” Martin said, “Just us, far away from anything, no need to worry about anything. It’s been, a hell of a year getting back, and we’re not getting any younger.”

“No we aren’t.” Jon said, “I’d- I’d quite like that actually. Scotland was… nice. Before- before everything, well.”

“Yeah,” Martin said, “Maybe, May? Or June. I think I could convince Jan to let me have June off.”

“I think you should.” Jon said, “And I’m sure Meritt would love to have me out for a few days. I’d quite like to get away somewhere too. Somewhere near the sea I think.”

“Anywhere particularly?”

“I was going to say Bournemouth, but, I wouldn’t call it picturesque exactly. But somewhere on the south coast. Isle of Wight maybe? Dover? Cornwall even. Cornwall sounds nice actually.”

“We’ll have a think about it,” Martin said, “But, yeah, the coast sounds nice.”

“Mm,” Jon said, “Maybe go on a bit of a road trip, look about a few places.”

“Can you drive?”

“Kind of? I have my driving license, I’ve just lived in London for so long that I haven’t touched the wheel of a car in what, six years? Can you?”

“I mean, yes, I just, haven’t, in a long time.”

“Same conundrum.” Jon said, “Though, there are plenty of coaches going in that general direction, trains too.”

“I guess you’re right,” Martin said, “So, Cornwall?”

“Cornwall it is.”

They finished eating in a warm silence. By the end Jon was full and content, carefully setting down their knife and fork at exactly 156 degrees round the edge of their plate, before resting their hands on the table. Sure, the metaphysical hunger was still there, but the real, tangible fullness overpowered it so it was little more than a faint memory.

“Was it good?” Martin asked, pushing his own plate forwards.

“Oh, it was great.” Jon said, “Been a while since I’ve had good duck, most places don’t do it, it’s a bit of an acquired taste from what I understand. You?”

“Decent steak.” Martin said with a shrug, “What more can I say?”

Jon laughed, before taking a sip of wine, and looking back over to Martin. They considered for a moment, before they cautiously leant forward, Martin mirrored them, and they kissed, softly and tenderly. Martin’s lips were soft, and tasted of wine, but not unpleasantly so. It lasted only a few moments, but it was enough.

“I love you,” Jon whispered, as they leant back a little.

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

The walk home was pleasant. The sun had fully set, and the shimmering blanket of twilight had fallen over them, the sky now a dusky blue colour, fading to brilliant pinks and ambers behind the buildings.

Jon leaned close to Martin, their arms intertwined as they walked through the various crowds. The restaurant had been the kind of place that gave you mints alongside bill, so Jon was working their teeth around one. It was the kind of mint that was so overpowering that it seemed to burn your tongue, fill your nose with its clean, fresh smell until all your senses were drowned in that sharp, minty sensation.

The bill itself had also been, substantial, and Jon had the feeling they'd be eating microwave dinners for the next few weeks after this.

“Early night tonight I think.” Martin said, looking up to the sky, “Because if I know one thing about you, the thing you need most is a good night’s rest.”

“I suppose you’re right in that regard.” Jon said, their gaze tracing along the street.

“I mean, really.” Martin added, “You look dead on your feet half the time.”

“I do not.” Jon said, “I try to look awake.”

“You haven’t seen yourself at midnight.” Martin retorted, “Or in the mornings. You can go to sleep before me, you know.”

“Yeah, but then the bed’s cold.” Jon said, “I need my human hot water bottle.”

“I can get you some if you like.” Martin said, “I just- I don’t like to think you aren’t getting enough sleep.”

“I know, I know.” Jon said, “I’ll probably be fine if I don’t, but it's nice.”

“Probably is not definitely , so therefore, you are getting eight hours of sleep everyday, whether you like it or not.”

“Fine, fine.” Jon said, “I’ll try.”

They continued walking in soft, comfortable silence, until they finally got back to their flat building. Jon’s leg was playing up a bit, but they were able to struggle up the stairs to the apartment, where Martin unlocked the door and let them inside.

“Tell you what, you get comfy, and I’ll make you a cup of tea, and get you that statement.” Martin added, “And remember, early night tonight.”

“Yes, yes.” Jon said, “Thank-you.”

“You’re welcome,” Martin said, before wandering off to the kitchen.

Jon smiled, before heading into the living room, settling carefully onto the sofa. They unbuttoned the front of their suit, pulling off the muted green tie they’d been wearing, and then undid the top to buttons of their shirt. They sighed, letting their shoulders relax, before shrugging off their blazer and tossing it to one side, replacing it quickly with one of the blankets slung over the back of the sofa.

They sighed happily to themself, and leaned back. They could hear the sound of the kettle boiling in the kitchen, and the shuffle of Martin moving around. They could also hear the creak of the ceiling as the people above them moved about their flat, and the muted sounds of some game show the person in the next flat over was watching.

They sat there like that for a good long while, until Martin returned, placing down the laptop and a steaming mug of tea, Earl Grey, onto the coffee table.

“There we are.” he said, “You can check over the statement, see if it’s the real deal, and if it isn’t I can get something else.”

“Right, yes.” Jon said, sitting up and taking the mug of tea. It tasted strange with the mint flavour still thick in their mouth, but the warmth was nice.

They set the mug down, before they moved the laptop into their lap and quickly scanned over the site Martin had loaded up. It appeared to be some kind of personal blog, with a generic white and grey layout, the text in one massive paragraph.

“This is perfect Martin,” they said, “Thank-you.”

“Alright,” Martin said, “I’ll, I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Yes, thanks.” Jon said, watching as Martin turned to leave. They waited for the door to click shut before they began to read.

“ You know clocks? You know the things that sit and tick and wait in the quiet secluded corners of our everyday life? Yes, yes those. How dare those little things sit and dictate our tiny little lives with such ruthless vigour as they do. They tell us when a minute is, when an hour is, what the time of day is and we nod and we do not question it. Because we have been told to trust the clocks. Time isn’t real, not really, it's just spun together perceptions that our mind tells us are real. You understand, right? That none of anything time tells us is real. The scientist may tell us that time can be measured, that it's all perfectly even and perfectly measurable. That a second lasts this amount of time and a minute this amount of seconds. But it's not, the clock lies, the clock steals minutes, hours. Sometimes it crawls by, minute by minute, second by torturous second, but others it zips by unbidden. If you don’t watch that torturous tempretress of reason closely, it gets away with whatever it wants. Because the clocks lie. They tell you their sweet lies, and your mind believes you. Their numerals slip down the front of the clock face and fall onto your fingers as you beg for it to come and claim you, to have its strict rules define your every waking moment. And it laughs, for there are no rules for time. I once believed in that idea. That time is the only thing that we can ever truly live by. I met people, smiling people, with perfect white teeth and hair combed to pallid skulls, who simpered and told me the truth of time. Five minutes, twenty minutes, an hour, four-thirty, eleven o’clock. Why are these the way they are, I wonder? Because the ball of spinning rock, gas and water we find ourselves on completes a single rotation in a certain amount of time? Why could it not be thirteen hours in a day, or fifty, or two. Why twenty-four? Why did we throw down that arbitrary number, split it in two and then bound it tightly to our favourite timepiece? Why does it echo through every civilization in the world? Why do we attest to the whims of celestial beings and add numbers to align with the rising and falling of the sun? What makes us so? Why is it? 60. Such a strange number. 60 minutes to an hour, 60 seconds to a minute. But can we change it? We have marked these infernal numbers into our very psyche so we are no longer able to think about anything but it when we think of our infernal master time. We are just minds, moving from one point in reality to the other and we string that together to make sense of the tangling indescribable madness of our position, for can someone live out of synch. I can. I see my future, my past, my present, as I sit here my fingers tapping out these infernal words that do not describe the true essence of my being. For i am caught in the clocks, they have me trapped. I melt and I ooze and i drip deep and heavy into those surfaces all colours and shades, the numbers and numerals and lines we used to make down time and place patterning across my skin in liquid waves that bubble and burn and sink deeper and deeper and deeper. My very being ticks. It oozes and melts as time slides away and coalesces in a stagnant pool. Does this mean that i die? But don’t we all, soaked thick and pungent in this bloody, choking truth? That we are but things oozing between the talons of something beyond what we can imagine. I plunge my hand into the clock face, and it swallows me, my body vanishing slowly but surely into that choking consuming wash of eternal concept. I am but what time allows me to be, my moments tumbling and dying on my mouth as i try to recall them as anything but present anything but the now that now sinks into ever pour and tears apart this being until it is nothing but atoms that flow like water down the surface of the old grandfather clock that chimes so loud in the hallway and no words can describe the feeling none can even come close. For i am now and never and always. The clock is solid and firm as it melts into nothingness it cannot capture something as fluid and indescribable as time and my mind, falls with it- ”

The end of the message was cut off by a massive keyboard smash that was at least ten lines long.

Jon shivered, placing the laptop back on the coffee table and taking their mug of tea and taking another mouthful. The mint taste hadn’t quite vanished, but the statement had added a dry, chalky flavour to it, and the tea did help wash it away, even if it was only mental.

Declan Mulloy had only died the day prior, and his body hadn’t yet been found, stuffed into the trunk of his old grandfather clock. He had isolated himself before, so it would probably be a while until he was found. If he ever was.

Even if the statement had left them rattled, Jon felt better than they had in months. They felt, finally, full. The hunger had eased enough that it was unnoticeable and the rich food of the evening helped mask any remaining echoes. They were still tired, yes, but it was a fuzzy tiredness.

Martin came back in, settling down next to Jon.

“Was it alright?”

“Yes, wonderful.” Jon said, “I feel… Well, I feel great. I- I don’t feel hungry anymore.”

“Great,” Martin said, “Well, you can finish up your tea, and then maybe, bed?”

“Yes,” Jon said, taking another sip of the tea. It had cooled down a decent amount, and slowly, the icy menthol flavour was getting washed away and replaced with the earthy, citrus taste of the tea.

They were already half asleep by the time they were finished. But they were able to stand up, wincing a little as their leg complained after being forced out of the position it had sat in for the past twenty minutes, before they made their bleary way to the bedroom.

Martin tailed them, and settled into bed, having already changed into the clothes he slept in. Jon slumped on the edge, and carefully peeled their own clothes off before rolling unelegantly into the sheets, snuggling close to Martin’s warm bulk.

“Night Jon,” Martin said, kissing the top of Jon’s head as he wrapped his arms around them.

“Night Martin,” Jon replied, their eyes slipping closed as they fell into deep, restful sleep.

Chapter Text

Jonathan was on, ‘help direct the students’ duty. It was something he had been avoiding for a while. Making sure there was as little a chance of him slipping up, of someone realising what he was. But eventually, he couldn’t dodge it any longer.

He’d done it once before, shortly after he’d joined, and had carefully directed a handful of students, one genealogist and a writer towards the sections they wanted. Almost immediately after he’d had to sit in the storage cupboard with the lights off to gather some semblance of strength back. It was the mind-numbing normalcy of it all, these people who he should not know so much about from meeting them once, yet he could tell you their name, age, aspirations and their mother’s maiden name. But he wouldn’t.

Now, he stood by the door of the archives, the one that people who asked about having a look in the archives were directed to, taking weight off his leg and turning the ring over and over on his finger. Did he leave it with the gemstone facing out? Or turned into his palm so it looked like a normal silver ring? He didn’t know, and kept flipping it, examining it and then flipping it again.

It was uncomfortable with the stone facing inwards, but he felt, self-conscious having it the other way, so round and round it went as he tried to find a comfortable place to settle it.

Curtis drifted by at one point, waving to him before continuing with his work, which looked to be relabelling. His presence was, comforting, somewhat. But he drifted off eventually as well.

And just as he left, is when a student decided it was a good time to wander through.

Troy Lawson, second year doing an undergrad history degree, thought that made him seem smart (most people found it deeply pretentious), and had once spent a week in the hospital after drinking rubbing alcohol for a dare.

Jonathan stood up from where he'd been leaning on the wall, turning to the door, where Troy soon opened the door and peered inside.

“‘This the archives?”

Jonathan bit back the remark that the door had it written on it, but he put on his best customer service smile and buckled down for this interaction that would hopefully only last a few minutes.

“Yes, it is, you're a student right?”

“Yeah,” Troy said, stepping inside, “You work here?”

“Yes, I do, what do you need?”

“Alright,” Troy said, “I’m looking into the Crimean War, so I’m looking to see if you have any journals or stuff from the time.”

“We should have a few, yes.” Jonathan replied, “If you’ll uh, come with me.”

Troy snorted, before following Jonathan.

Jonathan did his best to keep his cool. He Knew that Troy was just coming to the archives because he thought it made him look cool, not because he actually wanted to see the documents first hand. He could have accessed any of these documents in digital format, and he would have likely gotten the same experience and information.

Then again, Jonathan barely knew this guy. He was just getting information about him. Troy was just a student doing research, like any other. He was no different from any other student, or novelist, or historian. Just curious, just doing research and due diligence.

They did eventually get to the shelf that was dedicated to the handful of letters they had from the time period of the Crimean War. They mostly had a few supply requests, a tattered soldiers journal, and the personal log of a doctor close to the front lines. But it was a good selection, or so he hoped. Though, he did know from experience that the journal did contain a particularly nasty Corruption case.

“Alright,” he said, clearing his throat and sliding out the drawer, “Everything that you could need should be here. Please be careful, these are quite old and very valuable.”

Troy snorted, but stepped forwards and began scanning over the various bits of paper.

Jonathan cautiously leant against the next shelf over. His leg was killing him today, and he was trying not to put any weight on it as much as physically possible, which was hard to do when you’d been assigned the job that required you to stand.

He was, of course, required to make sure that Troy didn’t try to steal or destroy anything. Why anybody would want to steal a bit of aged paper talking about how someone’s leg rotted off, Jonathan did not know, but it was protocol. So he kept his eye on Troy as he looked boredly through the letters, occasionally casting Jonathan an irritated glance.

Eventually, after flicking through the soldier’s journal for a bit, he stopped on a page - (35, discussing a day of sleety rainfall that left the soldier soaked to his skin and freezing) - and asked,

“Can I take this back with me to look over?”

“No,” Jonathan said, “You can’t, we have to keep them here to ensure that they do not get damaged or destroyed, there should be digitised copies in the library if you ask, or I’m sure we have a few paper copies that you can look through if you’d prefer.”

“Right, okay, thanks.” Troy said, snapping shut the journal, a little too violently for a delicate artefact - nothing had torn, luckily - and setting it back, “Do I talk to anyone then?”

“You can just ask for them at the front desk in the library, and if you want the paper copies you can speak to Sandy.”

“Alright,” Troy said, flicking his gaze away from Jonathan, “And, which one is Sandy.”

“Oh, uh, she should be in the other room. Just, ask for her, I’m sure she’ll be quite happy to direct you.” Jonathan said, trying desperately to parse if he was being in any way uncomforting. He hoped he wasn’t. But there was just something, off, about the way Troy was talking to him. Was he being too stand-offish? Or was he just over thinking? He was probably just overthinking, it was just him seeing things that weren’t really there.

“Cool,” Troy said, “And where do I go?”

“Oh, yes, it’s the door opposite where you came in, can’t miss it.”

“Cool.” Troy muttered, before turning and walking off. He cast a few more glances over his shoulder, before he vanished.

Jonathan stood still until he Knew he’d left the room, before collapsing against one of the shelves and sliding slowly down it, eventually settling down on the floor.

Why had it been so awkward? Why did he want to sink through the floor and never be seen again? Or tear his own skin off with his teeth? It was just one interaction with someone he didn’t know, he should pull himself together and prepare for more, because there would be more.

For now though, the floor was comfortable, and he could take a second to ground himself. He knew he was overthinking, interactions like that are bound to be awkward. But at the same time, Troy had looked at him like he was doing something wrong. Had he done something wrong? No, no he hadn’t done anything wrong he’d just, followed protocol and done everything he was supposed to do and was asked to do. He was fine.

It took him a bit to get onto his feet again, but he did eventually, running his fingers through his hair and sighing.

“You’re fine.” he muttered to himself, “You’re fine.”

He returned to his post by the door, doing his best to calm himself down, and trying to see if there was anything he should be worried about.

He considered it… putting pressure on the door. Not trying to open it, just leaning heavily on it by asking pointed questions over and over again his mind until something useful slipped through. It was exhausting and mind consuming, but it did mean he could assure himself that nothing was a miss.

Which there didn’t appear to be, so he relaxed and slumped against the wall. He was fine .

Troy did wander back, holding a small handful of papers, shooting Jonathan a glare as he passed.

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Jonathan asked, trying to keep the nerves from his tone.

“Yeah,” Troy snorted, before leaving.

There, fine, done, don’t have to talk to him ever again, you’re fine. You’re fine.

It was a few minutes of blissful, calming silence before Meritt pushed open the door.

“Sims, my office.”

“Sorry?”

“My office.”

Jonathan stood up, swallowing the lump in his throat and walking after Meritt.

He felt like a child getting called to the principals office, and was running through the same thought process of oh heck oh god what did I do wrong what did I do wrong . It was probably nothing, he’d just been following protocol, he’d just been following protocol.

He also came to the realisation that the only time he’d been in Meritt’s office before this was interviewing for the position, and he immediately felt more frigid dread settle heavy in his stomach. All the information he Knew about Meritt was useless. The name of the few friends he had - useful for blackmail but Jonathan didn’t have the heart -, his favourite drink, the exact make of the suit he was currently wearing, nothing with any real weight. Maybe, maybe he just didn’t have that interesting of a life. Nothing interesting to Know. But there was something there now that he thought on it, something hidden, deep, waiting. But that wasn’t to be thought of now.

Meritt’s office was small, a little off-shoot separate from the rest of the archives, with walls lined with shelves that held numerous valuable artefacts, small jade lions and stone carvings. His desk was a grand thing of deep, reddish brown wood, almost fifty years old, covered in neat stacks of paperwork and a handful of paperweights. His laptop, a two year old Apple Macbook was pushed to one side, connected to a monitor showing a long list of various invoices. Meritt had his doctorate hung on the wall behind his desk, along with a phd.

He took a seat, and Jonathan nervously took his own, across the desk from Meritt, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap as his heart squirmed in his chest.

Meritt glared across at him, his steel grey eyes boring into Jonathan, as if he was trying to cut into his soul, and he too could see every flaw and scar that pockmarked it.

“I have gotten a complaint.” he eventually said, “Now, I don’t take it seriously as I would, Troy Lawson has never been the most reliable of students when it comes to this kind of thing, so I need your side of things, just for fairness’ sake.”

“Oh, right.” Jonathan stammered, “I just. I just did everything he asked, and enforced the rules. Kept an eye on him to make sure he didn’t damage anything or steal it, and directed him to whatever he needed.”

“I thought as much.” Meritt said, “I short, the complaint was not officially logged, he just called you, ‘A bit of a weird guy’. Can’t say I don’t agree with that assessment, but since you didn’t break any rules it is not something you need on your resume. In other words, I do think it is time for a bit of a… review. Don’t you think.”

Jonathan nodded, wordlessly. Meritt’s eyes were the kind of harsh, icy grey that felt like an impenetrable spiny wall, as if their very gaze was a blade that burrowed itself through your skull and found its spot in your brain.

“Now,” Meritt continued, “As you know we have been short-staffed for a while, so unless I have good reason I will not fire you-”

Until someone more qualified comes along.

“-But as of now your performance has been… exemplary. As much as I hate to admit it, you do have a great deal of efficiency, and I have not yet come to clock any mistakes. While I have yet to run your translation of Andrés Felipe Martinez’s journal and your recent translation of Adán Sepúlveda’s journal by my Spanish speaking associates, it does appear your other translations have been flawless. As much as I disapprove of your methods.”

“Yes, thank-you,” Jonathan said, squirming a little in his seat and shifting his leg into a slightly more comfortable position.

“However,” Meritt bulldozed on, “I believe we have previously discussed your beliefs of the supernatural. I made it clear that I did not want it to influence your work. However,” at this he slid a battered journal across his desk. Jonathan’s journal. He must have accidently left it behind one day, how could he have been that stupid? Why hadn’t he noticed?

“Sir-” Jonathan stammered, “I’m not entirely sure you should have that and-”

Meritt lifted his hand.

“I am aware.” he said, “I would just like to mention that it does appear that you are in fact letting it seep into your work. Most of the translations you’ve done that haven’t been assigned appear to hold some element that could be described as supernatural, and these are often done with more care than the rest of the translations, as is made evident in here-”

“That’s a blatant breach of my-”

“Sims,” Meritt snapped, “You must understand that I do not take kindly to you letting your own beliefs influence how you go about your work. We are academics, we are not some kind of historical ghost-hunters madly speculating about the past. We are here to preserve and watch, not to go off on wild, speculative goose chases, that is the job of the archaeologists and more likely the anthropologists.”

“I- I understand.” Jonathan said, gripping tightly to the sleeve of his jacket, “But, for clarity sir, do you believe in the paranormal? ”

“In some regards, yes.” Meritt said, before he froze. That abject, sudden terror that slunk across his face, that he’d just admitted something he kept locked away in his soul, like the fact he watched ghost-hunting shows, telling himself it was just to snort at the historical inaccuracies, but it was actually because he believed there to be some kernel of truth in them.

And that terror was glorious, a fresh, living meal after months of picking dried scraps of the bones of various carcasses. And he was going to rip into it raw and bloody, because this whole time, Meritt had been hiding a statement from him, buried under tons of scepticism and reasonable justifications. But he still had the scar on his lower back, the hand-shaped one where a searing thing of brimstone and charcoal had tried to pull him back.

Jonathan leant forwards, drinking in that terror with horrible, desperate greed, and the next question dripped from his throat unbidden, carrying with it the weight of his hunger.

“ And what’s the story behind that? ”

Chapter Text

“There was a house at the end of my street, it burnt down in the fifties and just, hadn’t been rebuilt. And nobody went there. It just squatted there like a shadow, a twisted black wreckage that bled its charcoal dust into the street whenever it rained. It was really only a handful of support beams and a few soot smudged walls, so I did always wonder why it was never fully demolished and built over again. Guess I learnt the hard way.

“It’s still there, I still walk past it whenever I go visit it, and I stare between the iron fencing blocking it off from the rest of the street, at that unassuming, blackened wreckage and remember what happened there. Tried to think what it was that happened.

“Either way, I grew up with that house as a spectre in the back of my mind, and as kids tend to do we made up stories. Stories of ghosts, a man wreathed in fire who would walk around at night, casting his flickering flames to cast shadows of dancing agony across the dusty earth around the ruins, where nothing dared grow, save it be torched. At that point, we’d all get scared and run back home, but it was still all fun and games.

“Of course, there was also the idea of what caused the fire. There were the mundane answers that it was just an electrical fire or a heater or something like that, but us kids, no we didn’t think they could be dangerous, so we came up with all sorts of stories. Curses, ghosts and hexes, among the younger kids, bitter exes and criminal husbands willing to do anything to bring down their family with them amongst the older. In short, that house was the urban legend of my street and the next few blocks around it.

“Now, I had a friend, Karl Haines, who lived on the same street. We were the same age, and we would always go play together, whether it was football down at the small patch of grass we called a ‘field’ or just playing tag on the street. He was nice. And he loved telling stories about the house at the end of the street.

“See, his house was at the same end of the street as the burnt down one, right next to the patch of land actually. And he’d always say that late at night, sometimes he’d wake to see amber firelight pouring through his windows, and when he went up to see what it was, he’d look out towards the burnt building, and it looked as if there was a flaming figure standing there, in the middle of the ruins. His garden also couldn’t grow anything on the side that backed onto the land, so they made it a patio instead, and put up a nice tall fence to stop any curious kids from running off and investigating. Like they were scared of the very land.

“I went over to his house one time, for a sleepover, and I saw that light too, pouring through the windows, bright and stark. It danced across the surface of the sleeping bag I’d brought with me, and I sat there, staring at it for a while, not sure if I should get up and look, then Karl hopes out of bed, shakes me a little, and tells me to come look, like it’s the best thing in the world.

“And we look together, out over his garden towards the building, sitting in the darkness, like the skeleton of some ancient beast, now silhouetted in that brilliant orange flame. Because there was a man standing in the middle of the garden, little more than a hazy shape roughly defined by the way the fire licked off his clothes. And he was just, standing there, perfectly still, not running or screaming, just standing there.

“I asked Karl about it, and he said that yeah, it was a ghost. Probably anyways. And that would’ve been that, if we hadn’t been stupid. Neither of our parents really cared what we did by that time, when we were both approaching sixteen. It was a bright, sunny morning in early September when we decided to go into the house.

“We decided to wait till nightfall. Of course, couldn’t have anybody calling the cops and ruining our fun, so after school we sat opposite it, in one of our other friend’s, Lily Burns’, garden, looking out the house and smoking. We talked about what we thought we’d see in the house. The ghost of course, maybe a few broken picture frames with burnt pictures, a few valuables, maybe a basement or an air raid bunker or something. A lot of houses in our neighbourhood had those, our area had been hit hard by the Blitz back in the day.

“Eventually the sun set, and we crept over to the building, now starkly set against the setting sun, each of us with a shitty pencil torch we’d had since we were ten. And we hopped the fence. Wasn’t hard, we’d done it tons of times before, with different places, of course.

“The land around that house was barren. Not even the hardy bits of grass that cling desperately to the edges of hard-packed dirt, it was just, dust, occasionally streaked with old bits of charcoal where the rain had stained it. We scanned around, and there was basically nothing on the grounds around the house, not even interesting scorch marks, just dry, barren earth that nothing had grown on for years.

“The site of the building was no better, as I had the duty of looking around, it was only a handful of old support beams, maybe a few clumps of melted together wiring, and a handful of stone walls. Though, in what must have been one of the old rooms, there was this strange scorch mark in the old dirt, it looked like one of those chalk outlines when someone’s been murdered, but in black soot, as if someone had fallen there and their shadow imprinted into the floor.

“I was about to call out to Karl, when he came running to me, telling me he’d found something in the back garden, and I should come look. I came with him, ignored my disquiet at the strange scorch mark and ran down the garden with him, trying to ignore the fact there were burn marks in the ground, exactly in the shape of footprints.

“Now, the backyard was no better than the front yard, outside of an old fashioned outhouse, and as Karl had found, a trap door, leading into what had to be an old air shelter, just like we’d hoped to find, and it should be untouched by the fire. The surface was so covered in dust we had to sweep it away to try and find a handle, and when we did it was so covered in scorch marks it looked black.

“Now even Karl was getting scared, but he told me we’d gotten this far, there was no stopping now. So he grabbed the handle, a horrid bit of rusted metal, and tried to pull it up. I did have to help him, and I tried not to notice how warm the wood was as I heaved it open. The trapdoor opened smoothly, despite its heaviness, and fell to the earth with a thud once it was open enough to swing on its own.

“The air that rushed out was hot, like the feverish breath of someone sick, and brought with it the distinct smell of burning dust. We shone our little torches into that hole, revealing a short, rickety ladder that led deeper into the earth. We both looked at each other, and Karl gave me a smile, trying to hide how nervous he was. We ended up playing rock-paper-scissors to see who went in first. I lost, so down I went.

“The ladder was warm and rough under my hands, the kind of warmth you get when you leave something metal in the sun for the whole day. It didn’t really make any sense, and as I kept descending, I noticed the air seemed to be getting warmer, like I was edging closer and closer to the roaring heart of a furnace. I could feel the beads of sweat beginning to form on the back of my neck by the time I got to the bottom and my feet hit the hard concrete. The air was hot, and dry, and I felt my throat dry out as I waited for Karl to get down.

“The wait seemed to take forever, and I got the impression that I was sitting in an oven, slowly cooking alive, the blackness pressing down like a blanket. I still had my torch, but part of me didn’t want to look, didn’t want to see what was going on.

“Karl did, so when he got down there, he cast about his torch, the thin beam cutting through the darkness like a lighthouse. It was a small shelter, as we expected, with a round roof that cut maybe three metres into the earth and was about two across. It was pretty barren, outside of a charred, mummified corpse that sat against the opposite wall.

“Karl looked at me, and I looked back. There was no way this was real, but Karl decided to go up to it, examining it. It looked to be a man, or had been a man, with the charred remains of its clothing stuck to its blackened flesh. Its face was a hollow skull, with its lips pulled around its grey teeth in a cruel grimace, somewhere between pained and gleeful. And he, like the dumbass he was, touched it.

“He immediately pulled back his hand like he’d been burnt, and with this loud, snapping pop the corpse’s arm shot up and wrapped its long, gnarled fingers around his wrist. Karl screamed. I don’t think I’ll ever forget that scream, pained and terrified all in one as he tried to pull away.

“Fire began to lap along the corpse’s clothes, and made its chest glow and its hollow skull light up like a jack o’ lantern, as if the fire now beginning to crackle along its clothes was starting from the inside out. And it was as if that flame restored that figure’s life, as where the flames danced, I almost saw a man, living and healthy. And he stood up, and embraced Karl.

“The thing I’ll never forget is the smell. Like cooking pork fat. It filled that bunker with its scent just as soon as Karl’s agonised scream, a scream that still haunts my nightmares. But it was the smell that’s always stuck with me, I can’t eat pork or bacon because of that smell.

“And I just stood there, frozen, my feet glued to the floor as I stared at my friend slowly being burnt to a crisp. I couldn’t do anything, just watched as that thing became nothing more than a blazing inferno, the heat baking off my face as tears trickled down my face.

“Eventually, it dropped Karl. He was nothing more than a blackened skeleton by then, and I couldn’t look at him, I just saw that thing lean back and look me dead in the eyes. They were the colour of flame, a brilliant amber gleaming between the dancing tongues of fire as they wrapped around that horrible, grinning skull.

“At that point I ran, turned and bolted up the ladder. I could feel the heat of it behind me, and soon, I felt its hand grab at my back, its fingers burning through my clothes and planting themselves firmly onto my flesh. The pain was agonising, white hot, and seared all the way through my skull. I screamed so loud my throat hurt, and I kicked downwards, hard. I felt the rubber on the base of my shoe melt, but it was enough to dislodge it before it could get a proper grip on me.

“I was able to get back above ground and ran through the dark, bolting over the fence, and ran screaming home. My parents were furious with me when I came home late, but as soon as they saw the state I was in, they called an ambulance and the police. I got treated for the burns, before the police interviewed me.

“There was a search for Karl, of course there was, but they never found him, they never went into the building. In the end they said I was just making it up, and Karl had ran away from home. And I wanted to believe them, I wanted to believe that I was making it all up, but that scar has never faded, the perfect imprint of a hand.

“Now, whenever I go back home, I lay down a small bouquet of flowers by the fence, as my respects to the friend I lost, because his body will never be found. They always end up dying and crumbling to ash, like everything on that land should be, barren and dead, and lifeless.”

Meritt’s statement stopped with a juddering breath. His face was ashen, and his eyes were brimming with tears. His Adam's apple bobbed as he stared at Jonathan in abject terror.

And Jonathan, well, Jonathan couldn’t have felt better. The coursing terror still lay heavy in the air, and he was still drinking it all in, it was brilliant, intoxicating and he remembered what it was like to be well and truly full again. He leaned back in his chair, taking in a deep breath of air, before sighing contentedly.

“Thank-you.” he said.

Meritt just continued to look at him, his voice clicking as he tried to form words, though he was eventually able to choke out.

“What are you?”

“I’m the Archivist.” Jonathan replied, “Now, can I leave?”

Meritt stared at him for another long second, before nodding in a stupefied manner.

Jonathan smiled, standing up and left to get back to work.

Chapter Text

It was almost an hour before the sheer gravity of what he’d done hit Jonathan. He’d managed to guide another student through gathering something for sources, the interaction much less awkward with the buoyancy a fresh statement seemed to have given him.

Then it did hit him. What he’d done.

He’d failed. He’d gone and fed off someone, and not just anyone, but Meritt, someone he would see day in, day out, someone who already had it out for him. God what had he done? He might as well kiss the job goodbye and move to Manchester.

And the glee he’d done it with, drinking down that terror like it was the best thing the world could offer him. And now Meritt was afraid of him, of what he was. It would be a baseline terror that would sustain him, yes, but at the same time, that was his boss . And while sure, having your boss being afraid of you might be a good thing in some situations, Meritt didn’t seem like the type of guy to take having his deepest repressed trauma wrenched out of him and then played on loop for the rest of his life - or until Jonathan died, whatever happened first - well.

The room felt suffocating. And it wasn’t like the air was humid or even hot, it just all of a sudden felt like everything was just a bit too close.

A Buried avatar? No. No he would’ve Known, this was just him. And he needed to go outside.

He walked back through the archives, trying to even out his breathing.

“Jon?” Sandy called as he passed, “Aren’t you meant to be doing something?”

“Right, yes.” Jonathan said, “I was just going, to go take a smoke break, if that’s- if that’s fine.”

“Alright,” Sandy said, “Are you doing alright, you seem shaky.”

“I’m fine.” Jonathan said, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I’ll, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Alright,” Sandy said, “I’ll go bug Rowan, he’s half as bad as you about shirking his responsibilities.”

It was said jokingly, but it still felt like a cutting knife. Jonathan nodded, smiling sheepishly before turning to head out of the archives. He felt the fresh crispness of the afternoon air on his face and gave a shaky shy of relief.

He collapsed against the wall and slid down it, trying to stop the shaking that now trembled through his very being. He’d been so careful and all it took was getting confronted once, and he’d just, let it slip, and now he might as well consider himself fired. He didn’t know if he could face anyone again, not today at least.

He eventually did pull a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it and taking a long, unsteady drag. He let the smoke settle in and fill his lungs, before shakily blowing out the cloud of smoke, letting his head fall against his knee and just trying to calm himself down. He was not having a breakdown here, not now, not ever. He needed to keep his cool.

After another long drag he pulled his phone out of his pocket, and stared at it. Meritt certainly wouldn’t object to him going home early, in fact, Jonathan wouldn’t be surprised if Meritt wouldn’t mind never seeing him again. He should feel glad about that. But it sent a horrible, gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach that he didn’t like.

Eventually he did unlock his phone, navigating through his contacts until he found Martin’s number. His thumb hovered over the call button, and he just couldn’t bring himself to press it. What would Martin think? Would he be disappointed, angry? Jonathan had done so well so far. Would this put too much stress on their relationship that they didn’t need right now? He could just not tell him, hide it. But the truth would come out one way or another, and Jonathan couldn’t just call him out of the blue because he needed comfort, without giving the explanation.

He pressed the call button.

The dial tone rang out once, twice, three times, before there was the dull click of the phone switching to voicemail.
“Sorry, can’t come to the phone right now, probably doing something really important, or not, you never know. My phone could just be dead… hm, either way, sorry, couldn’t answer your call, but you can either call again later, or leave your message after the tone. Again, really sorry.”
Even the sound of Martin’s voice, recorded though it was, was enough of an anchor for Jonathan to secure himself and settle his nerves before speaking.
“Martin I- I messed up. Badly. I’m- I’m sorry. I should’ve- Look, I- I took a statement, in person, and- And I might as well just-” he couldn’t find the words, “I’m sorry.” and he ended the voice mail.

He set the phone back down, laying it on the rough concrete, and took another drag. He Knew Martin was in a meeting, and just had his phone on silent, but there was still that aching, gnawing knot that bound itself tight in his chest, and a hundred other what-ifs that clung to him like insects.

He didn’t care how long he sat there for, before Sandy pushed open the door.

“Hey, you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Jonathan said, trying not to sound as rattled as he still was.

“It’s just, you’ve been sitting out here for ten minutes. And you didn’t look to good so I thought-”

“I’m fine, Sandy, really.” Jonathan said, “I’ll- well, we’ll see.”

“Jon, are you sure-”
“Maybe I am considering going home early, but that’s it.”

“Look, you can talk-”
“I’m fine. Please. Just, go. I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Sandy said, “Meritt won’t be happy.”
“I’m having a feeling he’ll be fine with it.”

“Alright,” Sandy said, before slowly shutting the door and leaving.

Jonathan slumped his head back onto his knee, staring down at the ground.

He stumped out his cigarette, before lighting another. He wasn’t typically a chainsmoker, but the first had not helped soothe his nerves in the way he needed it too, and he wanted any excuse to stay out here for as long as possible.

It wasn’t long before his phone rang.

Jonathan’s head snapped up, and he turned to look over at where his phone still lay on the concrete, signing out its soft chimes. He picked it up, his fingers shaking as he stared down at the options for taking the call, and pressed accept, placing the phone to his ear.

“Jon, where are you?!” Martin’s voice immediately spat from across the line. He sounded- he sounded… angry, panicked? Jon couldn’t tell.

“I’m- I’m still at work, out- out back.”

“Right, right,” Martin said, “And you’re fine, right?”

“Yes, I- I think so.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t send me voicemails like that, I thought you were going to do something stupid. ”

“Right,” Jon said, wincing from the sudden loudness, “I’m, I’m sorry.”

“No, no it’s fine, it’s fine, you just gave me a heart-attack that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon stammered, “I- I wasn’t thinking straight- and- and-”
“No, no it’s fine.” Martin said, “Alright, okay, let’s start from the top, was it someone you know?”

Jon nodded, before realising Martin couldn’t see them, and stammering out,
“Yes, yes- I do know them.”

“Alright, who is it?”

Jon sat in silence, just voicing who it was felt like the damning seal to their already doomed fate, but they did manage to choke out.

“Meritt.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake Jon!” Martin sighed, “Anyone. Anyone , and you choose the boss that hates you!”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Jon said, tears stinging at their eyes, “I- I- He just- I-”

“Jon, Jon, calm down.” Martin said, “Look, I’m not mad at you- okay, maybe I am- but you’re fine.”

“I’m not though, am I Martin,” Jon laughed, his voice cracking, “I’ve ruined everything. Meritt’s going to fire me, just because I got careless, and ruined everything.”

“Maybe not.” Martin said, “And even so, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. You can- I’m sure you could find another job.”

“It wouldn’t feel the same.”

“I know, I know, just, work with me please.” Martin said, “It’s going to be fine, probably. You’re not in immediate danger, are you?”

“No- no, no I don’t, I don’t think I am?”

“Alright, good.” Martin said, “Now, I’m coming to get you.”

“But I thought-”

“Jan can go- can go suck on rusty nails for all I care.” Martin said, “I’m making sure you don’t do anything else that’s that stupid, alright?”

“Right,” Jon said, feeling the tremors now running up their arm as they leant against the wall, trying to stop themself from breaking down, “I’m sorry.”

“I know I know.” Martin said, with a heavy sigh, “I should’ve known. You’ve been starving, it would have happened eventually, whether I liked it or not, just didn’t expect it to be your boss .”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Jon stammered, for what must’ve been the hundredth time, “It just- He was-”

“Calm down.” Martin sighed, “Start from the beginning.”

“Right, right.” Jon said, shaking their hand as they tried to calm down, “It- it was complaint, someone- a student complained about me, very insubstantial really, I think, from what Meritt said they weren’t- necessarily trustworthy, so it wasn’t serious. Then he uh- he was doing a review. I’ve got a really good performance and accuracy, actually! But- but then he started asking me about the uh, the paranormal, he had my journal-”

“I’m sorry he had what? ”

“My- my journal? The- the leather one that I keep all my notes in any important information-”

“No, no I know what you’re talking about, but why did he have it? Isn’t that- that’s a breach of privacy.”

“I know.” Jon chuckled, their throat thick, “But he had it and looked through it, from the sounds of things.”

“Right,” Martin said, “It’s Covent Garden right?”

“Holborn’s closer.” Jon replied on instinct, “Or Russell Square.”

“Cool.” Martin said, “But still, bloody hell. Then you… well.”

“Yes.” Jon said, “I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I did, always Know, but, I’m not sure. I just, asked him if he believed in the supernatural. Compelled him. By- by accident! But- but still.”

“Right. And you then, got the statement.”

“Yes.” Jon said, “Just- That moment of pure, abject terror, I lapped it up. It’s been so, so long since I’ve had a proper statement, I feel, great, honestly, outside of the guilt. Energised, I don’t feel tired, but- I just-”

“I know, I know.” Martin said with a sigh, “Starving dog.”

“Starving dog.” Jon sighed, “A starving dog just presented with a fresh meal.” they chuckled, feeling the tears well up in their eyes, “Yet I still feel guilty.”

“I mean,” Martin said, “That means you’re still human, right?”

“I suppose.” Jon said, resting their chin on their arm, “I can still feel the guilt of my actions, give the Eye that horrid extra flavour, the fear of my own actions.” they chuckled darkly again, “Sometimes I did wish it wasn’t, it wasn’t so hard. I’ve seen, all these other avatars who can just, take what they need and feel no remorse. Maybe I wondered why I couldn’t be like that.”

“Jon, come on.” Martin said, “Don’t, don’t think like that, okay? This isn’t- this isn’t good but it’s- it’s instinct.”

“It isn’t, Martin.” Jon said, before getting cut off.

“Yes it is, you said so yourself, it’s like a starving dog being presented with a chicken, or a rabbit or something. Sure, it’s not great for the rabbit, but the dog still needs to survive.” Martin said, “Just don’t, don’t be too hard on yourself, okay? I still don’t agree with the whole, feeding off your boss thing, but I guess I was just waiting for this to happen really. And I know how you get.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Yeah.” Martin said, “Look, I’ll be there in five minutes okay? Then we can get you home and you can… digest.”

“Yes.” Jon said, weariness now spilling over them like a funeral pall, “Thank-you Martin.”

Chapter Text

There was a snaking crack across the ceiling. Jon couldn’t count for how long they’d spent staring at it, tracing the jagged, twisting line from one wall to the centre of the room. It was just in the paint, they Knew that, but sometimes, it reminded them of the crack in reality, that weeping, bloody wound that split through a hundred, thousand mirror reflections.

Maybe they could reach out, plunge their hand into that gaping chasm and lose themself somewhere else again. Leave behind all of this guilt in an old world again. But then wouldn’t they become some martyr of doomed worlds, and that squirming guilt would still linger, the echoing, screaming memory that covered their soul in a hundred pockmarked scars.

Martin settled down on the edge of the bed, Jon vaguely registering his weight, and curling a little closer into themself. Their eyes did not leave the crack.

Martin placed his hand on their shoulder, but they did not move.

“Jon.”

Jon broke his focus, their gaze finally sliding over to Martin. Was it pity in his eyes as he looked down at them? Or concern? Either way, their gaze returned to the crack.

“Look, we’re going to have to properly talk, you can’t just, shut down like this.”

Jon blinked, letting their gaze fall down to the floor, still covered in the same slightly off-grey, stained carpet that the flat had come with, with the uncomfortable wiry texture that meant they always had to wear socks, otherwise they would always notice it.

They tugged on the sleeve of their jacket, which they still hadn’t taken off, even if it was intolerably warm. It was the one Martin had bought for them after they’d come back from America, and had magically weathered its way through all the apocalypses, attacks and hospital visits. It was worse for wear, yes, patched in spots with bits of faux leather, the elbows worn two shades lighter than the rest of it, but it was comfortable, nostalgic. They rarely let it out of their sight these days.

“Look, Jon, I know you messed up, but… I’m not mad, not anymore. It’s not, ideal , but there’s no need to beat yourself up about it. It’s just- please Jon.”

Jon sighed softly.

They didn’t know what to say. 

What was there they hadn’t? In tearful, draining apologies in that little back area which Martin wasn’t supposed to be in, but was there anyways, or on the tube ride back, whispering sorrys into his shoulder like they hadn’t already wrenched every way they could. But had it been enough to assuage the guilt that grew in their chest? No, of course it hadn’t, it still burnt and burrowed deep into their flesh, sat in the corded, scarred flesh of what had once been their heart.

They slowly sat up, before slumping against Martin’s shoulder. The patch of fabric they rested their head on was still slightly damp with their tears. The white-hot sadness had long been spent, replaced now with that dull, muted feeling that was vaguely sadness, but was more an overhanging sense of guilt.

“Jon.”

“I’m fine, Martin.”

The words felt half-formed in their mouth, and stirred forth from a cracked voicebox.

“You are clearly not.” Martin protested, “Look at you! I know it was a- a horrible thing to do, yes-”
“Martin.” Jon sighed, “It’s not going to change anything. What’s done is done. He’s going to fire me, and that’s it.”

“No it’s not .” Martin said, “I- I swear to god Jon if you don’t stop- stop beating yourself up over something you can’t control-”

“I can Martin, we’ve had this conversation.”

“Yeah, well, the way you keep going on about everything it sounds very much like this is instinctual. To some degree. If you can call weird, fucked up, paranormal compulsions instincts-”

“It’s not that simple Martin-”

“Okay, okay, analogy. You keep going on about the Eye being ravenous and that naturally expresses through you, its favourite avatar-”

“I hardly think I am now-” Jon tried to protest but Martin plowed on.

“And you describe it like a starving animal- a- a- a dog, or a cat, or something. And you’re picking off dry carcasses of long dead animals, bits from bigger animals or something, I don’t know, and suddenly a bird flies in front of you, you wouldn’t blame a dog or a cat for eating the bird, would you?”

“I mean, that depends-”

“I wouldn’t.” Martin said, “Which is why I don’t blame you. And I’m sick and tired of you beating yourself up over the smallest slip-ups.”

“This isn’t small though,” Jon said, “I could lose my job because of this, and we were barely scraping by on just your income.”

“I know, I know.” Martin said with a sigh, “Just because I don’t blame you, doesn’t mean I’m not still- frustrated.”

Jon nodded, turning to gaze back down at the floor again.

“Look, I’m just going to go for a walk. I just, I just need some space okay.”

“Yes, yes that’s fine.”

Martin stood up, grabbing his jacket from where he’d flung it onto the bedside table and tossed it on. Then he was gone. The door opened and shut, and he left.

Jon shouldn’t be worried. They could handle him leaving for ten minutes, but they did still worry. Was it them? Was he just masking how angry he was, and trying to hide that truth from Jon?

They slumped onto the bed again, before rolling onto their back and staring at the ceiling, speckled with old water stains and small chips and cracks which they knew the reason for, but had long ceased to care about.

They felt so tired now. They didn’t know why. They just did.

They traced their gaze along one of the cracks, snaking, zig-zagging through pale white-wash paint, following each individual judder and change of direction, as if it was a chasm sinking deep, deep into the very fabric of reality, not a fragile crack in the paint.

They did not even notice when they fell asleep, until the smell hit their nose.

***

They’d been here before, hearing the last hacking calls of the Flesh Hive, in a house they didn’t recognise but Knew to well. They saw him huddled against the wall, but he was faded in that way that told them that the connection was only one way, and this was a crystallisation of a tale traded in a different place, a different time.

It still hurt, as they knew well that itching horror that climbed down the solid core of you to find what kept your body on its jerky road and cut it loose.

But they could not look away.

They had to watch every agonising, crawling shape as it slunk forward, until it began to burrow into soft flesh.

But here, their attention was snapped away. A new place, a new time. A new horror.

Their feet moved without them thinking, the walls of the mouldering council house faded to an open barren garden, blackened ruin standing stark amongst it all.

They walked through them, trailing scorched footsteps, to a trapdoor. Their hand found the iron ring of a handle, and heaved it up. They did not struggle like they should, even if they felt the weight, but soon they descended down into the darkness, and came out in the dark shelter.

They knew what they’d see there, but it was still surprising to see him, curled in the old, tweed suit, looking up to them with wide, terrified eyes, that then flicking over his shoulder to the mummified corpse already becoming crackling kindling.

Maybe it was how present he seemed.

But he did stumble forwards, grabbing onto their shirt, his fingers bundling the cloth in desperate handfuls, crying and begging to know what the hell they were, why they were doing this as the heat grew on his back. But he could not harm them, not here, and they could not offer answers, because while they Knew, they never understood this. How could they?

They could only look down at him with a ghost of pity and guilt.

The begging turned to screams as he was dragged back, arms pinned to his sides by flaming limbs that charred quickly through flames. And they felt nothing, even as those steel eyes cut back towards their’s, each an intense acid green that burnt just as deeply as his cut.

Then they turned, and headed up again, to the sky. To where the dreams always came to before they looped once again. To where the sky looked down at them. To where they tilted upwards, their eyes treating up to meet their master’s. To become well and truly a vessel again (Jon) to feel the knowledge course through them, sweet and glorious (Jon!) and to feel that beautiful wholeness that made all the horror finally-

“JON!”

They startled awake, blinking and looking up to Martin, now staring down at them with mild concern.

“God, you scared the life out of me.” he sighed, “I just, god.”

“Sorry.” Jon said, shuffling up to a sitting position.

“Y’know.” Martin said, “You don’t really breathe when you dream. I mean, you do, but it’s so shallow it’s like you’re not even trying.”

“I- I don’t?” Jon said, still groggy from being woken so suddenly.

“No.” Martin said, “It makes telling if you’re dead or just asleep so much harder I swear. Just, no- no its fine.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon repeated, their voice soft.

“I know you are.”

Chapter Text

Jonathan miraculously hadn’t been fired.

Why did that fact make him more uneasy than if he had been?

All they Knew, is that he still had the job, getting ready the next day. But that unease still clung to him like a heavy blanket. He’d seen Meritt again, wreathed in smoke and flame, but didn’t speak about it. He just took into account that Martin had seen him leave in that moment.

He was now sitting in one of the few spare seats on the tube, legs tucked up to his chest as he stared blankly into the middle distance. Unfortunately there was a person sitting in the seat opposite him, but they had long buried themself in their phone to ignore the unbreakable, unfocused glare.

Maybe, Meritt had set this up as a trap, waiting for Jonathan to step into it and have the rug pulled from his feet. A grand scene of sorts. But there was also the insidious suggestion that Eye had long bound itself to that place and held him there, the heart of a black hole. Maybe if he found himself in a place he called his archives, he could not be uprooted unless he chose to himself.

Either way, it was a hundred running, river-like possibilities, each more horrible and stomach churning than the last.

The only thing that snapped him out of his spiral of thought was the Knowledge that his stop was coming up, at which he carefully unfurled from his seat and wandered to a door.

The train came to a halt, he got off and travelled through the busy crowds to the street above. The sky was overcast, but there would be no rain, not today, though the humid heat of the air was absolutely suffocating, which did not help Jonathan’s thundering heart as he trudged along his way.

By the time he pushed open the door, any anxiety had reached fever pitch, his insides tying themselves in knots (not literally he hoped), as he walked towards his desk, expecting to see a letter or something marking that he was, in fact, fired. But there was nothing. They Knew that.

Their gaze flicked over to Meritt’s office, where he’d open the door to peer around the rest of the workspace. They locked eyes momentarily, and Meritt’s face paled as he quickly ducked back into the office.

Jonathan gave a sound that was half way between a despairing moan and disbelieving chuckle. So he was scared of him, maybe it tipped to the appeasement side of the scale - keep the monster happy so it wouldn’t feed again. But Meritt couldn’t be fed off, not again, not like that. He’d had one, horrible, traumatic experience, and that was all the Eye wanted of him, and now he was terrified of the thing that had dragged that raw and bloody from where he’d kept it locked deep in his chest.

He slumped down onto his desk, the despairing laugh still wrenching itself from his chest, leaning more towards exhausted sobs now. Great. Great! This was going to be awful, and it was all his fault!

“Dude are you okay?”

Jonathan looked up to Curtis, standing nervously over his desk, peering down at him with a concerned expression.

Jonathan quickly composed himself, still chuckling dryly.

“I’m fine Curt, really.”

“No, no you’re not.” Curtis said, “Look, has, something happened or-”

“It’s fine, Curt, really, just- just leave it, okay? I’m fine, really.”

“Right, okay.” Curtis said, “Look you can- you can talk. I mean, I may not get it, but like, it helps.”

“Curt, please. I just need a minute to myself, okay?”

“Right. Cool.” Curtis said, stepping back, “Look, if you do need to talk, I’m open okay?”

“Thank-you.” Jonathan said, watching Curtis leave before collapsing back onto his desk, letting his head fall to one side so he could stare across the room, watching the movements of everyone else. He saw Rowan shoot him a concerned glance, before leaning over to Curtis to ask him something. Curtis shrugged, shaking his head and replying.

Arienne drifted in, glancing at him from the corner of her eye, and glancing to where Sandy had followed her. Sandy shrugged, but still trotted over to the desk.

“Alright, mate, what’s up.”

“Nothing.”

“No- no something is up, and you know it.” Sandy said, “Look, you left early yesterday, and you’re still a wreck now, what the hell happened.”

“Sandy, I’m fine-”

“Eh-uh, nope, wrong answer. What’s up? It’s not Martin is it?”

“No, it’s, it’s nothing to do with him.”

“Alright, good.” Sandy said, “Now, what’s up?”

“I don’t, you wouldn’t understand.”

“You’d be surprised.”

He did, genuinely consider coming clean. To explain everything. But would that just turn her against him? Would revealing himself as a monster make her hate him? Especially after what he’d just done, everything he’d done?

“Sandy, really, just, leave me alone, please?”

“If you stop moping around like the world’s ending, maybe.” Sandy said.

Jonathan nodded silently in agreement, standing up.

“I’ll uh, go look through some filing.”

“Good.”

Sandy watched him as he stood up, and moved towards the files. He Knew what had to be done, more reshuffling and moving about, and he Knew which files were to go where, as usual. Now though, there was a bizarre ball of dread that had wedged itself under his ribcage, spitting up black bile every time he leant into his Knowing.

Was it not the desperation for knowledge that had led him to doom a world? To turn against a well marked plan and become the creator of a hollow world? And had he not loved that amount of power and knowledge? A throne built just for him. A thousand loving hands embracing him, giving him everything he could want off the backs of the suffering of millions.

And even here, had a single strand of Knowledge not sent him plunging forth like a blood drunk hound to rip yet another statement free from someone else, just to satisfy a hunger that burnt and gnawed and chewed through him till he was nothing but the hunger, a true monster with no desire other than to hunt and to feed and-

“Alright, joining the ‘what the hell is wrong dude’ train, seriously, you good?”

Jonathan snapped his gaze up, seeing Rowan standing nearby, looking at him with a level of mild concern in his eyes.

“I’m fine, really.” Jonathan said, realising quickly that he’d been at this for almost an hour and he hadn’t really noticed, as caught up as he’d been in his own thoughts.

“Okay,” Rowan said, “But like, you are not doing well, seriously, has something happened?”

“You wouldn’t- you wouldn’t get it.”

“Maybe I-”

“You really won’t.” Jonathan said, some petty part of him considered grabbing something he’d learnt about Rowan to swing around as ammunition, but biting back that urge. He’d really be a monster if he did that.

“Fine, fine.” Rowan said, putting up his hands, “Be like that, but you are going to have to talk at some point.”

“I know, I know.” Jonathan said, turning back to the work as Rowan drifted off. He could feel the whispers in the back of his mind, the rumours. The half-glances to Meritt’s office. He wanted to shut it out. To just have a minute to himself without the Eye drip feeding him Knowledge into his mind about what everyone else was saying.

He felt the scream of frustration build in the base of his chest, and he bit his tongue to swallow it down. If only this could just be simple. If only .

He flipped through the pile of loose sheets, some stapled together, others not, and stopped on one, carefully pulling it out. It was on the Battle of Towton, probably a copy sent over from York for the records.

Was it a good idea, reading it just after he’d taken one from Meritt? Maybe not, but it would stave off the hunger, at least for a bit longer, and he’d take those chances. So he carefully tucked the pages into his jacket, and glanced over to where the rest of the team was, now going about their business and for now, paying him no mind.

So, carefully as to not draw attention to himself, he headed outside, sliding the pages out of his jacket as he did and beginning to flick through them.

Chapter Text

“ God, this is stupid, can’t believe I’m actually going to attach this to a bloody academic paper. But it’s important, I feel what happened today has some academic merit. No, no who am I kidding, of course it doesn’t, it’s just me being horrendously sleep-deprived or something.

“ Either way, I’m just going to tell it how it is. That’s just what I’m going to do. I saw ghosts, at least I think they were ghosts, there was nothing else they could have been. Because the last time a lot of those men were breathing and moving was in 1461.

“It started with the arrow head. Nothing new, there are plenty of places to find arrowheads. It looked to be bodkin point, and in pretty decent condition, so I reckoned it was probably planted there by some idiots who wanted a laugh - that’s why it’s not in the rest of the report. Though, after doing some further examination, it hadn’t been planted there recently, and its edge was stained with old blood.

“Now, that was a bit of a concern. I mean, again, some guys having a laugh was still on the table, but the blood did mean it was a biohazard, so we had to be careful with it when examining it.

“Now, nothing really happened for the day after I found it at first, but the next day I decided to take a walk, out over the fields, towards Bloody Meadow. It was a fine day, windy, and absolutely freezing, yes, but the sun was shining and the air was fresh and clear. It was as I was coming to the Towton Cross that I heard it, something like… drums, beating a steady, heartbeat stamp, occasionally joined by the rattle of a smaller drum. And, looking out over the dales, towards where the fighting was, I saw it.

“A surging group of knights, fighting and battling against each other, blood red and royal blue. And the battle seemed to shift and move to the steady beat of the drum, rising and falling. I wanted to get closer, I wanted to see what this was. An unplanned reenactment? A bunch of LARPers decided today was as good a day as any to have a bit of fun and recreate a historic battle.

“But as I got closer, I began to see the blood staining the mud, the looks of fury on the men as they ripped into each other. I’ve heard the term tooth and nail, but the meaning of that was stark here as I saw a Yorkist soldier rip the ear off a Lancastrian with his bare teeth, lancing bloody claw marks into their chest with his nails, all weapons apparently lying forgotten.

“Thing is, they didn’t look like ghosts. They didn’t seem translucent, or ghostly, they felt real and solid. The sickly, metallic scent of blood was thick and pungent, and their pained and angry cries filled the air clear and sharp. The chorus to the drums.

“And now trumpets had joined them, loud and raucous and still the battle shifted and changed. But for all the sound of music, I could not see its source. No drummers perched on the back of a dale, conductors to this torment, in fact, it seemed as the sound came from the heart of the battle itself.

“I didn’t get any closer then, nor did I runway, I just looked to where the A162 curved from behind the southern dale, right where I knew Norfolk’s forces were to come from. And as if my anticipation had called them forth, a river of men coiled up into the shallow valley, and soon plunged into the battle, their own weapons drawn and ready.

“I didn’t know for how long I stood there, staring blankly at the fighting, my feet slowly freezing with the dale. I won’t describe everything, but all I will say is seeing someone get bisected by a great sword is not a pretty one to behold.

“All I know is that it was midday by the time the Lancastrians fled, running in small groups away and towards Cock Beck. And after them came the Yorkists, streaked with gore and blood, leaving their dead where they’d fallen and charging after them.

“The trumpets had faded. The drums were pounding fast, quick as the pulse in my ears, and that seemed to spur the hunt and pursuit on. Even then, men were cut down. Blades flashed crimson-silver in the light, taking out arms, legs, bringing hundreds more to their knees as they took no prisoners.

“Those that did get to the Beck were quickly swept under the rushing water, used as stepping stones by their fellows until the water was bleached scarlet, and bodies piled up in horrible dams, still but more trampled down under terrified, bloody foot.

“And still after the Yorkists charged, away and away, likely further to the River Wharfe where yet more blood would be shed. Then I finally managed to find my way back to the path and head home. It was ten o’clock by the time I got back.

“And I couldn’t get to sleep that night, because I could still hear those drums, pounding loud and heavy far away, occasionally joined by the proud, triumphant shout of the trumpet, and all I could think of was those men, trampled underfoot, cut down and brutalised, and the terror that must have wrought.

“But it seems as if this wasn’t some new horror, a true recreation by some violent idiots. Because the next day I expected news, national news, but I saw nothing. Didn’t even see anything on social media. It was like it never happened. Even the mud was undisturbed when I went back out to check it out.

“I’m not mad, I know it, and even now I still hear the drums, somewhere far away, over the dales.”

Jonathan took a shaky breath. He should have guessed. The Battle of Towton, bloodiest battle fought on British soil. Didn’t matter if it was fought five hundred years before the Slaughter even emerged, it found a way to latch onto the old fear that still remained in the soil, crystallising it into something more concrete and waiting to feed off it again.

As for Mr. Donal McManus, two months after he wrote this statement, he murdered of one of his colleagues, and the attempted murder of another, the weapon being an arrowhead that was believed to have been stolen from the storage of the place he worked for. Afterwards he ran off, and was later found on the banks of Cock Beck, apparently having drowned.

Chapter Text

“Where have you been?” Areinne asked, and Jonathan glanced over to her, bracing himself for another conversation about his actions.

“I was, outside.” he said, “Smoke break.”

“Ah, right.” Areinne said, giving him a careful once-over, “Just wondering that all, you’re still… twitchy.”

“Right, yes, I’m- I’m aware.” Jonathan stammered, trying to do anything but make eye contact. Was they making him more suspicious? But he couldn’t look her in the eye now, not now anyways. Some small voice in the back of his mind told him it was impolite, but he smothered it quickly with yet more shrinking shame.

“You know, I would ask, but you’ve brushed off all the others so I know it’s quite pointless. Just, get some sleep tonight okay? You look like you haven’t slept. Well, more than usual anyways.”

Jonathan laughed weakly, before nodding silently.

“Well, I'll let you on your way then.” Areinne said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Right, yes.” Jonathan said, before sighing and heading back over to the filing cabinets, carefully sliding out the sheets of paper and tucking them next to their fellow, are rather standard analytical paper on some remains found in the Towton area believed to be from the battle.

He stared at them for a moment. To know the bloodsoaked future of the man who had written that paper. One brought along by the thrumming stamp of Slaughter.

He flicked through various other pieces, getting into the rhythm of work again. The statement had done its work, he was less shaky, and only occasionally did his thoughts skip over to Meritt, the shaky position of his job. His mind was instead filled with the typical useless nuggets of information about the pieces of paper he was filing.

Part of him was just counting down the clock. Waiting for the moment where he could go home, to try and detach himself from the guilt here.

Maybe he could quit. No- No he couldn’t. This was his archives now, there was nowhere else for him to go. An Archivist that didn’t archive felt wrong, at least to him. And well, maybe a position had opened up closer, but certainly not in London, or any of the surrounding suburbs. Especially not in the suburbs.

So he was stuck here. A familiar tale - maybe not a match, but certainly a rhyme. Or maybe all his excuses were justifying his current situation, ignoring the rut he’d tripped over again and blaming it on him not tying his shoes.

Had the Eye already shackled him to a fixed position? It would certainly fit his position. A museum was a place of learning, a place where scholars, archeologists, and any history nerd could gather and gaze upon the wonders of the natural world. And sometimes that knowledge wrought terror. So this was a perfect place for the weakened Eye to settle gentle and insidious as creeping smog.

That would make sense. At least to him.

He barely noticed the buzz of his phone in his pocket, but he became very aware of it in a moment. It snapped his focus, and he glanced around at the others, already at work, and pulled it out of his pocket. He knew it was Martin before he even turned it on.

I forgot to mention before i left, but today is that office party thing, with Jenci. Yk the one

You OK being on your own for a bit?

Jon stared down at the screen, silently cursing before sending back a reply.

That’s fine. Thank-you for telling me.

Sorry for not letting you know sooner. Lot on my mind

I know.

Should get back to work now

Yeah. Thanks for telling me anyway.

👍 Ur welcome

Jonathan sighed, sliding his phone back into his pocket and slumping his forehead against the shelves, letting the feeling of soft despair drape over him for a moment, before he swept it back and sat up again. He still did have work to do, and he couldn’t spend it sitting around and wallowing. He’d done enough of that already.

“Hey, Jon?”

Jonathan paused, steeling himself and turning to Curtis, trying to make it look like he was interested.

“So, kinda a big ask, but I was wondering if you wanted to come out to get drinks with us? You know, it’s Friday and all.” Curtis asked, “I mean, if you’re not already busy that is.”

“No, I’m not-” he paused to clear his throat, “I’m not busy, no.”

The other question was whether he wanted to or not.

The idea of the whole thing made his skin itch, that many people that close - all the noise - it had always been difficult for him before, but he’d bit his tongue and pushed through on numerous occasions. And with Martin out for the evening…

“And yeah, why not.”

“Cool.” Curtis said, standing up, “And loosen up a bit, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jonathan said, turning back to the files he was sorting and waiting for Curtis to leave.

He did, eventually, and Jonathan sighed a heavy sigh, as if it could release all the tension in his body and mind in one go. It couldn’t, of course, it still snaked into his bones and held him there, firm and solid. There was no use stressing about it now he’d made his decision. Just had to follow through with it now.

Just had to follow through.

Chapter Text

It was loud. That’s all Jonathan could really describe it at first. And bright. The lights, even with their low amber, seemed to bask the whole place in white, making the reflective gloss of the tables shimmer. The next thing was the assault of smells, alcohol of all types and flavours, old tobacco that lingered on the clothes of all the people around him, the musk of different perfumes and sweat, all blending together into the heady, muggy heat. Then there was the noise, the latest football game being played on the TV in the corner of the bar, the groups of old men that sat laughing in the corners, and the young uni students who were here to party late into the night.

Jonathan’s mouth was full of a bitter, empty taste as he scanned around, trying to find something to focus on, something to stop himself getting lost in the drift. For the most part, currently, it was locking his gaze onto various people amongst the group. Sure, it was the archival staff, but it was also a group of various other people from the museum staff. A few of the security guards, some of the curators, even one of the cleaners had hopped along with them.

Right now, they’d managed to find a corner to cram themselves into, and drinks were being ordered by Sandy, who was shouting over the general clamour of the pub.

“And you Jon?!”

“Sorry?!” Jonathan called over the noise, his voice hoarse.

“What do you want?!”

“I uh-” Jonathan said, scrambling through the list of beverages, “Just a cider, whatever kind they have I don’t mind!”

“Cool! Half or full!”

“Half for now!”

Sandy nodded, enthusiastically thumb’s upping him, before turning to the next person.

Jonathan sighed, leaning back into the hard wood of the chair he was sitting in and staring at the table, which was made of glossy, brownish-amber wood, polished to a glossy shine, so he could see the reflections of those around him imprinted into the surface. It was so sickeningly perfect. He didn’t know why that bothered him. Why did he want to dig his nails into the surface and leave long, white lines in that perfect glossy surface, but he wanted to.

God why was it so loud.

The space exploded with cheers as Chelsea scored a goal against Manchester.

Jonathan damn near jumped out of his skin at the suddenness, and shot a nervous glance over his shoulder, his gaze briefly locking with a bald, stubbly old man - who was developing a fatal tumour in his lungs from chain smoking his entire life - but it was just a moment, just enough to let that droplet of information slip in.

“You alright there Jon?” Curt asked him, and Jonathan turned, mumbling,

“Mm, oh, yes I’m fine.”

“What?” Curt called, “Sorry, can’t quite hear you over all this noise.”

As if to underline this, a group broke off into laughter, the kind of loud chortling laughter only drunk older men in British pubs could conjure.

“I’m fine.” Jonathan said, forcing his voice to be a little louder.

“Cool!” Curt said, “I mean, thanks for coming out with us mate, we can really catch up.”

He flung his arm around Jonathan at that point, and a searing, blinking pain spat across his entire shoulder, making him have to blink stars from his vision for a second.

“Y-yeah.” he stammered, trying not to yelp or wince in pain too noticeably. His gaze shot around again, lashing over several unremarkable faces.

Agents of the stranger maybe? Or something else? Oh, god, why didn’t he think of that, there could be avatars of all kinds - and what if they noticed him here? Most certainly weren’t kind to having a creature of the Eye in their presence. But would they even notice? Had the Eye’s presence been around for long enough.

Could he not just have that information?

He could feel himself throwing his body uselessly against the stern protection of the door, howling at it with bloody fingernails to just give him the information that he needed, that he wanted. To open for once in its stupid, fucking existence and just give him something useful.

He hadn’t even noticed the frustrated tears that had risen in his eyes. Until he’d blinked them away. He wanted to scream. It was all too much, all at once.

“Here they are!” Sandy said, walking up to the group again, Jonathan hadn’t even noticed she’d left, and deposited a selection of drinks on the table, “They had Strongbow, is that good Jon?”

“Mm, yes, yes it’s fine.” Jonathan said, shoving down the rising need to scream. He couldn’t have a breakdown here, not in public.

He took the glass, still with the foam from when it had been poured, and took a sip. The sharp, but still fruity flavour did a little to ground him, but it hardly distracted from the dryness of his tongue sitting in his mouth.

He absently rubbed his neck, trying to find something else to pull him back. It was just in the space between his where his collarbone met his neck, and he swore he could feel something there, something cold and smooth. He suddenly became painfully aware of rolling eyes still there under his shirt, especially the ones still sore and streaming.

“So, is Meritt being any better?” one of the other staff members, a curator named Barnie asked, taking a sip of his lager.

“Oh, he’s still as grumpy as usual.” Areinne said, waving her hand, “Though, he has been a bit flighty the past few days.”

A chill of ice ran down Jonathan’s back, and he took another few gulps of his drink. He felt the icy liquid settle in his stomach, just as much as he felt that gnawing hunger. God, what if there was somebody here who had something worth a statement, would he be able to stop himself? Would anybody even notice? Oh, he was so bloody stupid - he could’ve just spent this night at home alone - he could manage that he’d done it enough.

“Oh, yeah?” Barnie said, “I mean, if he isn’t jumping down your throats anymore. That man is nasty .”

Jonathan tapped the table nervously, staring at his glossy reflection. His fingers slowly massaged that patch of muscle. Was it really just his imagination? It felt like there should be something there.

“And you must be Jonathan!” Barnie added, “Man, we’ve heard stories about you. Now, tell me, Sandy wasn’t lying about the whole cult thing, right?”

“N-no, not- not really.” Jonathan stammered, “I’m- I’m long past it now.”

The lie felt hollow in his mouth, even as he said it.

“Damn man.” Barnie said, “And if you don’t mind me asking, where’d you get the scars.”

“I do mind, actually.” Jonathan said, his voice raising in volume, before he wrangled it desperately back down. His heart was beating out of his chest, “It’s a long story anyways, so I’d rather not.”

“Fair enough,” Barnie said, “Just curious.”

Jonathan chuckled nervously, before taking another few, long gulps of his drink, wiping the foam that clung to his lip off on the back of his sleeve.

The conversation luckily quickly drifted away, but the stone of dread still sat and sunk deep into Jonathan’s gut, how long would it take for them to find out, how long would it take for Meritt’s fear to slip from flighty to fearsome, how long before things began to get worse for him. When the rumours would start.

“-Oxford huh?”

Jonathan looked back up, realising he’d been pulled back into the conversation.

“Sorry,” Barnie said, “Just Rowan told me you’d gone to Oxford.”

“Oh, oh yes- I- I did.”

“Scholarship?”

“Yes.” Jonathan stammered, “My grandmother just- just didn’t have the money?”

“And your parents?”

“Died before I was five.”

“Oh. Oh dear, I’m sorry.”

“It’s- it’s fine.” Jonathan stammered, “Don’t- don’t really remember them.”

He kept his grip firm on his glass, so tightly he thought it might shatter. This was a stupid horrible idea, this whole thing had been stupid and horrible, and rash and so, so stupid.

“Well, yeah, still sorry about that. Must’ve been tough for you.”

Jonathan nodded slowly.

The group of people around the TV rose in anticipatory volume as the striker moved in for a goal, before it burst into the irritated and disappointed clamouring as he missed.

“You support anyone, Jon?” Rowan asked, looking back from staring curiously at the crowd.

“No- no not really.” Jonathan stammered, “Sport’s never been my thing. I mean, I did support Poole for a bit back in high school, but that was… I was just trying to fit in then, really.”

“Oh, you’re from Poole?”

“Bournemouth.” Jonathan said, “Moved up to Oxford obviously, got a couple of different jobs in London and then just… never left.”

“Eh, fair enough.” Rowan said.

“So, where does the cult come in?” Barnie asked and Jonathan chuckled nervously.

“Well, uh, it was one of the jobs - it wasn’t like - we weren’t sacrificing lambs to effigies of squid headed men if that’s what you’re thinking it was- a research organisation that had some- some shady stuff going on behind the scenes.”

“Ah, cool, get ya.” Barnie said, “And you didn’t like, see any of the cult stuff?”

“Nobody sees the cult stuff.” Jonathan said, “Half of us were full uni grads, some of us had doctorates and PHDs, and they didn’t see the red flags, because they don’t make themselves obvious until you’re deep into it.”

He was being defensive, he knew it. But there had been signs. The interview with Elias had been all kinds of weird and stilted, but he’d dug his heels in, he’d been too stubborn to think it was strange, and maybe if he had seen that and had quit, maybe nothing would have happened. Maybe the world wouldn’t have ended, maybe everything would have been okay, maybe he would have lived a normal, happy, fulfilling life.

Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe Jonah would have found somebody else. Sasha maybe. God, Sasha - even now he wished he could see her actual face, what she really looked like, not that - thing. It had died screaming, screaming in a world he’d made by powers he should not have been given, yet did as a result of the suffering of everyone around him - in the whole universe.

“Alright, fair enough.” Barnie said with a laugh, before turning to speak to Rowan.

Jonathan stared at him for a long while, his shoulders shaking with tension. But he slid his gaze back down to his glass. The urge to scream, to cry out was still there, coiled like a serpent in the base of his chest. But he couldn’t, not here, not know.

He had to go outside. Or somewhere that wasn’t here, with the constant burbling chatter, the laughter of people getting more and more drunk, the Knowledge that one of the people nearby was a murderer that had not yet been caught, that one had almost died from eating nightshade - all of it was just too much right now - especially now.

His fingers gripped his glass so tightly he thought it would shatter. Just the end of this drink, then maybe he could excuse himself. Maybe he could get out of here, just maybe.

There’d been a bar fight last week, someone had lost four of their teeth. Carla from security was talking about one of her kids, and Sandy was laughing along to the story. Another table burst out laughing. Someone’s favourite food was pork. Another person’s best friend’s, mother’s, cousin was working in Malaysia. His teeth itched in his mouth, and his tongue was so very dry. There was definitely something under his skin.

“I’m going to go outside.” he eventually blurted out, turning to the table.

“Alright,” Curtis said, as Jonathan roughly got up and stumbled out towards the exit. People knocked up against him as he did. A history student with hopeful prospects. An arachnophobe with a normal reason for their arachnophobia. Eventually, he did get to the door, pushing it open and stumbling out into the cold night air.

It was so blissfully quiet that he almost wept then and there. He still wanted to scream, to curl up in a ball and howl out to nobody and everyone, but he didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to draw attention. He just collapsed against the cold brick wall and slid down it.

The thought of going back inside was a horrible one. The kind that made him want to tear his teeth through his cheeks. The small lump under his skin had developed into something he could definitely say was small, round and slightly squishy, yet still firm.

Another eye.

It had to be. Now it sent twinges of familiar pain, and he knew that’s what it was. Oh how he wanted to howl at that revelation. Just when it was getting warmer, he was going to be reserved to turtle-necks no matter what.

The door next to him swung open, and their was the click of shoes on the stairway. Jonathan looked up to Sandy as she came to a halt next to him, looking down at him with slight pity in her eyes. Was it pity? He genuinely couldn’t tell whether it was or not.

“You can go home you know.” she said eventually, “I know you don’t usually come out with us.”

“No, no sorry, I just- I just needed a moment, that’s all.” Jonathan stammered back, “I’ll, I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Look, you don’t have to.” Sandy continued, “Look, you’ve been on edge all day. So go home. This isn’t helping. None of this is. I’ll pay for your drink, and you can go.”

“You really don’t have to-”

“You’ll thank me later.” Sandy said, “You know the way back, right?”

“I, uh, yes- yes I think I do.”

“Alright, go on then.” Sandy said, before turning and walking back inside, Jonathan watched her go, before sighing and standing up.

Had to keep it together until he got back. That was all he had to do.