Chapter Text
Jon watches the knife sink into his chest, hears the sickening tear of shirt and flesh alike – and felt the soft spring of a mattress underneath him.
He jolted up, his eyes darting around the room. Unshed tears clouded his vision and his screaming heart shook so that making out anything that his brain could translate into a coherently sensical object was almost impossible – but after a moment, he managed to blink the tears away, and focused hard enough on one point for the sight in front of him to start making sense.
It was a wall. And not the Institute wall as he had last seen it, impossibly large and staring with the pupils of a million cold eyes; a blank wall, dim light painting the calming, if dull, shade of blue in darker hues that were still all too familiar. He remembered painting this wall.
This was home. Or at least... his house. He was... Home.
When his hands had stopped shaking, he lifted them to feel his face. Tentatively, he traced his fingers around his eyes, his old protocol for determining dreams. No, he was awake.
He was alive, he was awake, and he was back home.
Somehow. But without- Stop.
No, he would think on that later. His brain was panicked and scrambled, hardly in a fit state for even figuring out what had happened to him, let alone finding a way to fix it. His first order of business was to calm his breathing.
In out in out in- Calm- In, out. In. Out.
In. Out.
Calm.
It took him ten full minutes to wrench Martin from his mind - a hefty task at the best of times, even more so when his last memory of the man was of Martin's tear-stained face as he plunged a knife into Jon's chest. He did, however, eventually manage to restore his breathing to some shaky parody of normality, and with it came his ability to think clearly.
The second order of business, then... Turn on the light.
He shuffled out of his bed, and, miraculously remembering the layout of the small room even after the eons since he had abandoned it for the apocalypse, managed to complete that task without obstacle.
With the room now in full view, he caught his breath. Something was off.
It was his room, certainly. But... strange. Or rather... Less strange.
Where was the corkscrew that always lay on his bedside table, the one he had resolved to get rid of after Jane Prentiss had been confirmed dead, and had never quite had the nerve to actually remove? Where was the extra padlock on the door, and the borders for the window that always sat on the floor, waiting for the nights when he'd give in to the paranoia and shutter himself in? There were sharp objects – scissors and the like – lying in the open, and the kettle Jon had thrown out after his encounter with Jude Perry was displaying itself proudly in the corner as it used to.
It didn't make- No. It did.
As it used to.
He dropped down on the edge of his bed. His mind buzzed with a static that was almost unsettlingly natural – simply the static of a sudden migraine, of a thought that pushed too hard – as he struggled to process the revelation.
He was, somehow, in the past.
In the past. From the looks of it, before Prentiss' ambush of the institute. And... Ah, where was the mirror? Oh, that was right; he had only bought his full-length one after everything started going wrong, to check for worms, for marks, for burns, for tears, for... eyes...
Eyes-
Mirror forgotten, he tore at the sleeves of his shirt, ripping them coarsely at the seams to expose his arms.
His eyes landed on bare skin, and he almost shook with relief. A giddy laugh bubbled up in his throat. No scars. No eyes.
So he was definitely back before the Prentiss incident. That was... relieving. At least, if he was- If he was-
He gulped, swallowed down the swelling tide of panic within him, and continued the thought. If he was stuck here, at least he could attempt to avoid some of the actions that would rush them towards the apocalypse. Or even, if he played his cards right, prevent it entirely.
Jon gave a dry, quiet huff. Maybe if I weave my web right, he thought wryly. Annabelle would appreciate that.
And what about Mar- He lifted himself from the bed and glanced over at the old, wooden clock that used to lurk above his dresser. Analogue, and numberless as it always had been, the hands still conveyed the time to what he was sure was startling accuracy. Currently, they read 7:20 in the morning.
Seven-thirty... If his memory was correct – he wasn't going to dwell on the complex feelings of relief and irritation that rose at the realisation that he couldn't rely on a perfect, all-accounting memory now – then it used to be at 7:30 systematically that he would leave his home to begin the thirty-minute commute to the Institute.
After some minor scrambling in drawers and the like, he found a scrap of paper and a stub of a pencil, and began to write.
Theory: I am in an alternate universe, which has set me in a parallel time to sometime around 2015-2016, pre-Prentiss.
Notes: In cases of other universes, there is usually at least one notable immediate change. As far as I have been able to discern, there are none.
Conclusion: More data required.
Theory: I am in my own past – Pre-Prentiss – having replaced my past self here.
Notes: I awoke in my own room, a position which I was assuredly not in prior to the incident, and which my past self is likely to have occupied. No Avatar safety measures are visible, clearly indicative of the pre-Prentiss era.
Conclusion: Theory likely.
Occam's razor suggests a temporary adoption of this theory for all intents and purposes, at least for the present.
Jon sighed. He turned the paper over and began again.
Plan of Action
Point: Act as I did at this position in the timeline (reclusive tendencies should make this easier than it might perhaps otherwise be)
Reason: Difference in behaviour may alert Jonah, causing a disturbance in the timeline which may lead to events out of my control
He paused. So far, so good. Then -
Point: Adjust behaviour towards Martin (propose adequate excuse for sudden change in attitude)
He nodded to himself. If he was remembering correctly, his attitude to his boyfriend during this time had been- Deplorable, at best. Not even the threat to the timeline could put him off from trying to get that right this time, and to hell with the consequences.
Reason: Love.
Shakily, he mapped out the next, final point on his mind.
Point: Allow mental preparations for the appearance of Tim - and, most likely, for meeting seeing Sasha again.
𓁺𓂁𓂄𓁺𓂁𓂄𓁺
One final heave, and Jon was through the subway doors. He'd almost forgotten, during the whole apocalypse, one-of-the-only-free-...people... thing, how packed the trains always were on a Monday morning (it was a Monday, as his phone had informed him when he remembered to pick it up before leaving). Sadly, it was a necessary evil; the closest station to the institute was only a few stops away, and the test he'd conducted a few years ago involving all means of public transport towards it had arrived at fully conclusive results regarding the subway's superiority.
Still, he mused as he was jostled into a corner, it's a relief to be in such close proximity to so many people and not feel in the least hungry.
He should have found it more odd, really – no more humming, throbbing static behind his eyes. No more dull colours submerging the world with only a potential statement-giver lit up like a Christmas tree in his distorted, too-many-eyed vision. No more fluid ocean of knowledge to be trapped and free in. Normal should, really, have felt alien.
But it didn't. It felt... normal.
There was something oddly concerning, and oddly comforting, about that.
Still – he lifted his head to check how many stops were left. Three, it seemed; he'd been daydreaming – if it could have been called that – for a while. He was due some planning.
Right. Tim.
Carefully, Jon pulled the image of Tim, as he had been, to mind. His almond-coloured, straw-streaked hair artistically ruffled, grinning with that 'I've been doing something the boss wouldn't approve of' tint in his eyes, and that ridiculous Hawaiian shirt that he never seemed to be pulled up on for non-compliance with dress code.
Jon almost jumped, then, at the string that suddenly twanged in his chest. That was – his heart. Almost definitely. Positioned slightly on the right, that medical infrequency which used to come up during rounds of Two Truths And One Lie in college and elsewhere – a recognisable, familiar position, for Jon.
It was interesting to have a heart again.
However, it didn't help that it – and most of his organs, in fact – seemed currently in revolt against Tim's memory. He'd almost forgotten what it was to feel sick – naturally, going to throw up sick. That was something he definitely hadn't missed about humanity, at least.
Mentally, he chastised himself for allowing himself to become overly emotional. If he couldn't prepare himself for Tim, how could he handle-
Sasha.
He couldn't- He couldn't even remember what she looked like. He knew that. He knew that. But still, the knowledge hurt, somewhere inside him. He felt as if maybe, going back in time, he should have been able to remember. Maybe if he was human, he could have. But now-
He stopped. Everything. Even breathing, for a brief moment.
This wouldn't do. Crying in a public place – on public transport – was not at all conducive to his attempts.
Quickly, he wiped the beginnings of tears from his eyes with the edge of his sleeve, and composed himself. It took him a moment to recall how to hold them in and will his eyes back from the red tint they had doubtless started to assume – Avatars didn't cry, didn't need to, and it had been such a long time since he was human – but after a moment, he had himself under control.
Well. No use trying to go back over... that... Jon considered. More productive just to continue; the next stop was adjacent to the institute anyway.
Martin, he reminded himself firmly. It was just a name. Just an ordinary name, indicative of nobody in particular. Certainly no one very dear and currently absen- Nobody in particular.
He would meet this... Martin... at the institute, and he would be vaguely okay to him, but not too nice, and he would not dwell on what he wasn't supposed to dwell on, and he wouldn't fall in love either. Because there was no reason why he would fall in love with a coworker whom he barely knew. Because he definitely wasn't his Mar-
The subway carriage interrupted him with a bell. The voice, pleasantly monotone, announced arrival at Jon's stop.
With great difficulty, he managed to shuffle himself over to the doors and squeeze out, along with the one or two others who graced that particular station; small as it was, with no tourist or major business connections in the area, it was understandably not a popular debarking stop. Jon was infinitely grateful for that as he climbed up the well-worn steps to the street on the surface, his mind humming like a tape recorder left on play. (Only a simile, for once.)
The surrounding area was practically deserted, as always, and the institute was only a few minutes walk away. It allowed Jon that little bit more thinking time.
Tim. Almond-coloured, straw-streaked hair, taunting grin, and that incessant Hawaiian shirt.
Sasha.
Martin. Be nice, not too nice, and he's not the Martin you know.
Everything would fall into place somehow. It would be okay.
The institute gates loomed above him. He would be okay. The place was familiar – heck, more so than his own apartment by now, so help him – and he might not have Known everything would be fine. But he did know it.
He knew it.