Archive of Our Own

Martin clung to him tightly, oh, Martin. Martin was something to look at instead of the horizon. How could Jon forget Martin, even for a second? Even in comparison to a thousand worlds, he was still more interesting. Martin's presence had pulled Jon out of his fervour, the knowledge he searched contained in the abyss, now lost. Jon didn't really care. Martin was prettier than the multiverse anyway. Plus, if Jon died like that, Martin might be mad at him. At least Jon thought he would, it was hard to tell, actually; his head hurt. It hurt quite a bit, now that they thought about it. Jeez, Jon should stop doing that, thinking, that is.

He turned his focus back to Martin, an action a lot easier than thinking. It was quite nice to focus on Martin, turns out. He was one of the few things Jon could see by normal, human means right now. It hurt a lot less to look at Martin. Jon decided to keep doing that for eternity, maybe; it sure did make everything hurt less. Some archaic part of Jon's mind was telling him that that was because he had stopped trying to comprehend the multiverse, but it didn't hurt to pretend it was Martin. It probably could be Martin. Martin was like that, very perfect. When they landed, Jon was definitely going to marry him, maybe. He would do it right now but the knife in his chest made it hard to manoeuvre, that and they were in freefall.

Jon awoke with the distinct feeling of having landed; Martin wasn’t there. He was on a desk, a wooden desk. Jon's head was resting on it; ear pushed to the countertop uncomfortably forcing the rest of his body (which was facing forward) to twist. Despite the uncomfortable angle, it was actually quite a lovely surface; it was a warm, dark brown varnished beautifully with a yellow-tinted finish. Jon bet it was an old table or at least one made by a proper craftsman. On top of the table, directly in Jon's line of sight, was a terrible cup of instant coffee, the type Jon drank as a last resort and added twenty packs of sugar to when no one was looking. The cardboard cup was placed almost sacrilegiously, directly on what was now Jon's favourite table; it was probably going to leave a terrible stain. Martin would disapprove.

That was right, Martin, he wasn’t here how- how unfortunate. Jon had the feeling that after something like that, travel through multiverses, it was entirely possible Martin would never be there again. No reason to look away. That fact took Jon a second; the concepts involved being just a little incomprehensible.

Oh no- Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh lord, could that be the case? Martin? dead? No, it couldn’t be. Jon felt like he had been shot. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, he felt paralysed. It's not possible, is it? The objective part of the archivist informed him It was very possible, maybe even inevitable, the emotional part of Jon screamed ‘shut the fuck up, you pompous ass’, the archives whispered, ‘he’s dead and it's my fucking fault’. Jon started to cry. Full-body heaving sobs, ones that rattled through his incomplete rib cage, through his incomplete heart. He hadn't thought- He didn't think- the one thing Jon hadn't expected in the panopticon is for Martin to- before Jon did- that’s right I didn't think, did I?’.

Jon felt like he had been shot, shot and emptied, shot gutted and emptied, just like what Trevor had wanted to do to him. This, was not supposed to be possible. Heavy childlike sobs heaved through his throat. He was crying like he did when he was a kid, except even then Jon hadn’t cried like this. He had always cried silently, hoping not to attract his grandmother's insidious gaze, biting tongue and occasional awkward reassurance. So no, he wasn’t crying like a child; he was crying like a toddler, a pathetic, pathetic toddler unaware that he didn't truly want his grandmother's attention, that he didn't want anyone's attention. Well, except maybe Martin’s, but Martin was fucking dead.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. It. was. not. fair. Every bone in Jon's body hurt, Jon's chest pounded with pain, so did his throat. One was the phantom pain of what Martin had done to free him, and the other a very real, very painful reminder that at some point, he was supposed to get up, that he was expected to stop crying. To stop mourning Martin, his Martin. And that when he did that, he wouldn't be there, he would be greeted by absolutely nobody.

Get up and stop sobbing like a pathetic child was something he was supposed to do, while Martin was- while Martin was dead. Eventually, he was supposed to get up and open the door of the room he found himself in. He was supposed to do that without Martin. He was supposed to open that door, even though it had killed Martin. It had killed Martin, and it still expected him to listen, to sit and stay and roll over like he was their pet. That’s what the web wanted, why it had left him here, Jon had to assume. It expected him to do its bidding even though it didn't even fucking bother to give him a fucking body. It didn't even bother to let Martin lie properly, lie in peace in the human world, let him lie in the ground. No. The web just had to leave him somewhere where nothing but it could reach him. Nothing but the entities.

Jon pawed at his glasses in a completely illogical attempt to somehow unmake that connection, something he wouldn’t want to do anyway. That was it, wasn’t it? The web had either let him die on purpose to feed his body to the lonely, to finally let it claim what the arrogant asshole that was Peter Lukas had claimed or the reality Jon wasn’t sure was more or less painful, Martin had died and the web simply hadn’t respected either of them enough not to drop him into the open gaping Maws of The Forsaken.

Jon started laughing; it was kind of funny, none of his friends even had corpses. They were all killed for convenience and then scrapped for parts. ‘It's not even vaguely funny’ whispered the rational part of him. It was not funny that the stranger had shared Sasha’s body to its wards, that Tim rested in pieces and that Daisy had been more wolf than human when she was shot. It was not at all funny that his father had been twisted a little too much and was a little too charred for an open casket or to be anything other than cremated. But it didn't matter whether it was funny or sad, Martin was dead, and Jon didn’t think there was enough human left in him not to laugh at his own pain.

Jon laughed. His laughter bellowed through his chest, if was standing, he would have doubled over. It sounded kind of like the way Michael had laughed, but if Shelly had contracted the flu, lung cancer, laryngitis, and possibly clinical depression. Like his crying, Jon's laughter shook through his body and ribcage. Jon decided that this brief moment of non-levity was the time to sit up. To rip off the bandage. It was better than when he was sobbing, no? Still chuckling manically, Jon braced his arms on the desk. They were still shaking from the moments in the panopticon, so he needed a brace to shove himself off the desk. When he did so, the rest of the room came into view immediately, levelling them straight back into full sobs.

Jon was in his office, his old office, his office that was supposed to be old, and his. But it wasn’t old, well maybe it was, the building has been constructed centuries ago, but the “his” bit was new now. Three of the walls surrounding him were blank, free of the decoration that had been placed there over the years. The walls made Jon sad, unmarked, untouched; those walls had been one of the few things he liked about the archives.

Tim had hung posters up, a few weeks after they had first joined, and after the unknowing Jon had kept them up. Jon had also pinned the picture of Sasha to the wall as well as any other proof of her existence. He liked to put flowers there for both her and Tim, mostly Forget Me Nots; it had been his little routine. Daisy had even drawn a little crude picture on one of the walls of her and Jon killing Elias, and, at Jon's drunken request, Peter. Melanie had stuck punk rock stickers next to it too, to show her approval.

These walls had been one of the few parts of the archives that were decorated. When they were living there, it had always felt warmer in his office than anywhere else. Though that might just have been the protection from the Lonely the memorials brought. It reminded him of Jon and Martin’s cabin, they both preferred decorations- both had preferred their cabin was full of trinkets, art and even the occasional photo they had printed out and stuck to the wall.

Jon screamed and punched said empty wall. How. Dare. The. Web. The punch didn’t really have much strength behind it and the scream sounded less rage-filled and more scared, but both had had the type of unfathomable rage in it, not easily expressed. He would do, anything to make them suffer; he had to do something, anything. The web had taken Martin and sent Jon back. It had killed Martin and deemed Jon more competent to do its will. It had deemed Martin unnecessary, then deemed that lack of necessity as a death sentence.

Jon would do it again, again, again, he would punch that dumb wall until his knuckles bled. But he didn't want to catch anyone's attention, not before he confirmed where he was. He already knew though, it was obvious, or at least it should be. Jon forced himself to calm, one, two, three, four, one- he needed a calm mind, he needed to focus through the tears streaming down his face, he needed to be sure.

Jon didn't really know how to prove where he was- not without leaving his office, but he didn’t want to do that until he was sure. So, he turned his attention to the rest of the room. The other wall, the one to the left of the desk was still covered in boxes Gertrude had haphazardly stacked and shoved full with random papers, possibly as kindling. At least that wall made him feel nothing but slightly concerned at the chance of it toppling. Concern was all he felt, there was no lack of chance he would just burn down this godforsaken institution right here, right now, with everyone inside, just to make sure Elias went down too.

After quickly inspecting the final wall and ignoring any genocidal thoughts, he looked to the floor, hoping it might reveal something. Like the desk, it was constructed of high-quality old wood, but unlike the desk was rather scuffed, the occasional burn mark scattered around, probably left by Gerard during his arsonist escapades. That was when Jon leaned down to get a closer look, in the process, he bumped the desk- it made a metallic clanking sound. Wait, why did it make a metallic clanking sound? His phone! Jon still had his phone! He desperately yanked it out of his pocket, fumbling the phone one or twice in his desperation.

Jon grasped the phone like it was his only lifeline and carefully pressed the power button. The twenty-fifth of May, 2015, a Monday. His first day as archivist. Jon looked over to his open laptop among the Junk on his desk. Had this version of him read his first statement yet? Was Jon just a little too late for a fresh start? Did it even count if it wasn’t read onto a tape recorder? Gertrude hadn’t needed them, but Jon had always struggled to take a statement without them present. Had he? Or had he struggled to take a statement without them appearing? Jon started wistfully at his phone wallpaper, a picture of him and- no that wasn’t Sasha, was it? Oh, God that was Sasha, Sasha from the Polaroid, from Melanie's memory, the actual Sasha, not the monster that haunted Jon's memories.

Huh. Jon sat back down in this chair, hard. He was in 2015, a time when it made sense for the Not-Them not to have changed all traces of her, when it made sense, Sasha was perfectly fine and alive doing whatever she liked to do. A time where it made sense for Tim to be alive too, a point in Jon's life where it made sense for him to be unscarred, for there to be a version of Martin out there, just working his job. They had all been so innocent back then, not happy per say but so full of potential... They had all been alive, they hadn’t seen so much horror in the world, they could quite literally do things with their lives.

The fact that Jon knew there was a Martin out there on that could go on to live a happy life, made Jon feel a little better, a small hollow happiness. The web had still killed his Martin, ripped away the life from his eyes and fed him to what he despised most. Jon bit down on his palm to once again choke down his sobs, he really couldn't afford Magnus's attention.

Now that he had established his location and time. Jon continued to inspect his surroundings looking for any clear difference this universe might have that he could discern from his office. Jon checked under his desk. He hated it immediately. The pack on the floor under the best desk, could have been a nice gift, an item he loved, if he didn't know who it came from. If it wasn't a brutal reminder.

Jon’s old travel bag was a rich, warm, sweet green, a colour Jon had always loved. It was well-worn but still solid in a way that screamed high quality, it was just barely fraying at the edges. Its bottom was slightly stained brown from the dirt it had rested on again and again without being washed. There was also a small brown stain where Jon had spilled tea, and some blood. He loves this pack, he loved it more than almost anything, but he didn't want it here. Like Jon it didn't belong here it wasn't part of this world. He would've gathered it was with Martin, he would have preferred some small part of Jon could be with him, that the web had quite literally deemed Jon’s old pack more valuable than Martins life, his Martin. Jon bit down harder on his knuckles, they were bleeding at this point.

They took a closer look at the pack. The side pocket contained a dull red thermos, one of Martin's old ones. It was still half full. Jon instantly picked it up, took a swig to wash down the blood in his mouth and winced at the mediocre taste, not even Martin's brewing skill was ever able to make apocalypse tea good. It was seemingly unaffected by the travel between dimensions. He even had the faint memory of drinking the first half as he climbed up the stairs of the panopticon. Jon knew exactly what to do now.

Looking around now, there was also another option, possibly even the one Martin would have wanted him to take instead of the rash defiant action he was about to. If he got up, right here, right now, he could save Tim and Sasha, he could even save himself like the coward he was. He could get up a deal with the web just long enough for them to be safe. Then Jon could be done, finished then Jon could do what he wanted to do.

But even now he was still imagining Martin being there, watching shitty TV with him, just fucking existing and Martin didn’t. He didn't get to do that anymore; the web had deemed that unnecessary. This “gift” was what the web seemed to think would be just enough for him to keep going. But that was Martin.

Martin was what he needed to stay a cog in the Mother's Machine. Jon was simply too selfish to just do what the web wanted. This pack was a gift, an apology for taking someone, for doing something so despicable that the very implication it could be made better with a simple keepsake was mockery. Mockery, the web was mocking him. It had killed Martin; it had ruined Jon's entire life! It had killed Martin, and Jon loved Martin like the moon loves the sun.

That mockery would have been fine with Jon, Jon was always being mocked by the web, he was always under its thumb. Jon's entire goddamn life could be considered a web scheme. Except Martin, Martin was the one person in Jon's life that he had chosen and he loved Martin, so, so, much. The web had nothing to do with that.

Except that was a lie, wasn't it? In the end the web used everyone, even Martin, she used his care for Jon to guarantee its plan, and it killed him in the process, it killed him! It used him for its success, to stop Jon from putting the world to its quiet end and then turned around and killed him!

It was no longer just the web, the thing that had ruined almost all of Jon's life, it was the thing that had killed Martin, it had killed him, killed, him! So, Jon would fucking show the web. He would stop the web in one single move, something it didn't quite expect. He would show it just how stubborn the man who had once been Jonathan Sims could be. That killing Martin was the last fucking straw. It would be the last strategic tug that the Mother could make before its horrible web snaps.

Jon opened the pack and reached down into one of the pockets. He pulled out a gun. It had been Basira's, given to him in case the archivists had turned on them in their second climb of the panopticon. It was the very same one that shot Daisy, clearly in the head. God, Jon missed Daisy, he missed her and Martin. He missed Tim and Sasha.

The web had probably left it in there so he could shoot Elias, predictable as ever. It had left it in there, assuming his rage would be enough for him to carry on. It had probably killed Martin so he and Jon couldn't run away again, so Jon had nowhere to go but along with its plans. Too bad for the web, Jon was stubborn.

He checked the ammo as Daisy had so diligently taught him, in those chilly spring nights. They had used to sleep together, in this office, actually, they often curled up together. Having someone there stopped Jon from sleepwalking and having someone there reminded Daisy that she was above ground, it was a symbiotic system.

Jon turned off the safety and brought it to his head. Jon and Daisy had shared many things, apparently, one of them would be this gun. A fact that would be known by no one anywhere ever.

Jon knew what he had to do. Jon could and would make the web regret it, he would cut himself out, no matter how violent the process, all Jon had now to mourn was a future. A future that had died in Scotland during an apocalypse. Plus, Jon was sure Tim, Sasha, and the other Martin would be safe after this. They could successfully quit once he was dead, and they probably would, who would keep working in a new department after your weird pompous boss shoots himself in the head on the first day of the job.

Jesus, Jon wished Martin was here, but it was okay, Jon wouldn't be alone for long, not like Martin. He would join them; he could be done. He might just end up in the inky black like The End suggested but maybe there was something out there. It didn't matter, either way, he wouldn't be alone anymore.

The barrel of the gun rustled against the side of his hair, now short. He would fucking follow Martin. Whatever the web wanted him here for, he wouldn’t be of any use to it. He would die while he still could, he would die physically human, he would die quickly and almost painlessly at his own hands. Jon was so, so tired, tired of being alone, tired of people he loved dying, tired of suffering. Jon took a deep breath in, unfortunately, at that moment, Stoker opened the door.

“Bossman! Are you okay? I heard-“ surprised, Jon’s finger tightened on the trigger- a gunshot rang out.