#BUT ITS REAL DAMN HARD WHEN MARTIN AND JON ARE STANDING RIGHT THERE ABOUT TO HOLD HANDS OKAY????

[myketheartista]

on my knees, crying, pleading, shaking my head and slapping the floor: please god, please stop putting really soft and cute jonmartin art on my twitter feed, i’m so weak and incurable, i’m trying to stay sane in these trying times, i don’t think i can take another picture of them hugging, i can’t stand how jon is so small in martin’s arms LEAVE ME ALOOOOONE

[squeeneyart]

Breathe in the Salt - Chapter 25

AO3

Beta reader as always is @thesnadger

Nothing to do but talk.

Martin and Jon settle in for a movie night.

The documentary, if it could be called that, was absolute bunk.

Littered throughout were vague interviews and wild assumptions on the part of the very on-screen director, all tied together with a final push for people to purchase a very specific brand of smoke detector. And the low quality of the video couldn’t be blamed solely on Martin’s internet.

They watched the thing from start to finish, though, and by the end of its 70-minute runtime (“I should’ve guessed by how short it was,” Jon had grumbled partway through) their viewing had turned primarily to Jon taking the piss out of it. Academically, of course.

On Martin’s end the film itself was bad in an enjoyable way, and while he didn’t have the context for all of Jon’s complaints it was easy for him to listen. He’d even made some jokes that got Jon to snort.

He did have to sit uncomfortably straight to keep from leaning against each other. Jon had turned it a bit so they could both see, but when viewed from too hard an angle the picture looked even worse. So, Martin did his best to give Jon space and not let the effort distract him from the screen.

All of this being true, Martin was grateful for the horrible film. Nothing filled silence better than movies and television, so the nights following they settled into a routine. Someone would make dinner (with no further… outbursts) and then they would find something to watch. Afterwards they would say goodnight and Martin would escape upstairs to decompress with his little notebook.

Jon’s original idea had been to find something related to their goals. However, after another let down on night two involving a very old retrospective on the mid-century fishing industry (“Wrong century,” Martin had said about five minutes in), Jon dropped the idea, thus opening up a whole new world of cable television and old vhs tapes on night three.

“You bought yourself a laptop but never had a dvd player?” Jon yawned, getting comfortable on his side of the couch. 

“We sort of… skipped it?” Martin dug through a box of tapes for something worth watching, sifting through sappier options and 80s action flicks alike. “Dunno how, but we never got one. The laptop ended up being the first thing I ever had to play dvds, but the telly is too old to be hooked up to it. S’fine, though. I like tapes.”

“And you never get bored of it? Flipping between tapes and whatever’s on at a given time?”

Martin rolled his eyes. “I have a phone for other stuff, obviously. To be honest I don’t watch a lot to begin with, nothing new anyway.”

“Hmph. Same for me,” Jon conceded, sinking further into the couch. “Feels like there are other things I could be doing.”

“Except for now?”

A wry smile. “Special case.”

Martin’s stomach did a flip. He didn’t feel guilty, per se, but he wished he had something for Jon to work on to stave off the boredom. Everything had been so quiet with Peter gone and Simon’s waiting that no new leads had popped up. It wasn’t fair that Jon had to sit around doing nothing after wandering about in the sea for weeks. The least he could do was provide some entertainment.

“Hm. Right, how about this one?” Martin looked back and waved a vhs set. It was some old fantasy series with a group of children on the cover standing in a hallway. “Haven’t watched it since I was a kid, but I remember liking it.”

“Two tapes’ worth?” Jon glanced up at the ceiling. “It’s in episodes, right?”

“Yeah, though if you’d rather find something else…?”

Jon waved his hand. "No, I can’t spend the whole evening making up my mind. If we don’t like it, then we can find something else.”

With that settled Martin popped the tape in and took up his seat. On the other end, Jon sat with the blanket pulled to his chest. He wore a new set of pyjamas Martin had picked up at the shop along with a few other things to save Jon from having to wear the same clothes day and night. 

The show was a simple series meant for children, easy enough to follow in plot that some side chatter didn’t interrupt things too much. Honestly, Martin was glad they weren’t paying a whole lot of attention. He hadn’t watched it in years and wasn’t looking to be embarrassed.

A few minutes in, the children from the cover were running up the stairs to explore a large house. “Safe to assume you don’t have siblings?” Jon asked.

“Hm? Oh, no, it’s just me. You?”

He snorted. “Even if my grandmother wanted another child running around, I was enough to deal with.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “What, were you a terror?”

“I’d use the word ‘adventurous’, but she would’ve agreed with that description. If we’d been in that house,” Jon gestured toward the screen, “she would’ve been in trouble. Until it ate me or something.”

“I don’t think that’s how it goes?” 

Jon frowned. “That’s- No, I mean if it were real it would probably mean harm. Supernatural houses aren’t trustworthy entities outside of fiction. In fiction they’re mischievous at the least.”

“Can’t imagine that, a building that likes to mess with you,” Martin said, grimacing. He really didn’t remember much about this story. Maybe that was how it went? “I’m sure they’ll be fine. I wasn’t into spooky things back then.”

“I’ll take your word for it, but I’m not letting my guard down,” Jon said. He watched as the children walked up a spiral staircase. “Would you have wanted siblings?”

Martin considered this. “I can’t imagine having them? But an older sibling would’ve been nice. Someone to know better and help me with things.”

“I think any other child would’ve found me irritating, older or younger. Best to keep to myself,” Jon said dryly. “Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, yes, you can imagine the additional worry of raising a child who could explore the ocean like it was the woods. It’s not like she could follow me in.”

“I bet… She wasn’t like you, then?”

Turning back to the television, Jon said, “No. She was from my father’s side.”

“Oh.” He couldn’t tell if the question was wrong to ask, so looked back to the show. It was luck of the draw, then, whether someone was born with a selkie skin. Perhaps there was nothing to do with genetics in circumstances like this.

Back on the screen, one of the children had chosen to wander outside into the beginnings of a snowstorm with no thought to the cold. Outside the real world window it had begun to hail, and Martin realized how frigid it had become both outdoors and in.

“Well, at least this story is right for the season,” Martin said, standing up. “I’m gonna grab another blanket.”

With a start, Jon looked at him and held up the one he was under. “Do you want this one? I don’t-”

“N-no, that’s fine!” He walked briskly out of the room, feeling rude and stupid. All Jon had offered was for him to use the damned thing, not share it. And it wouldn’t have fit both of them even if he had meant it that way!

Opening the hall closet, he tried to calm down. He peered at the pile of folded sheets and blankets, lifting each layer to search for one he liked. There was a flannel one somewhere, deceptively warm for how thin it was-

Oh.

Tucked far down into the pile, far back enough so it was hidden if the one above wasn’t lifted, Martin saw something dappled and grey and out of place amongst the linen. Jon had left it to dry completely beforehand, so the surrounding fabric was unwrinkled. Considerate. And in a decent hiding place all things considered. It was a shame Martin had gone and ruined it.

He sighed, grabbing one of the blankets at the top that he’d initially passed on. Once he reached the doorway to the living room, he stopped and stared at Jon who was doing his best to seem unperturbed.

“So, I saw it,” he started, squeezing the blanket in his arms into his chest. “I use that closet a lot, if you want to put it somewhere else.”

Jon winced and stood. As Martin let him pass, he mumbled, “Right. I’ll just-” 

And then Martin was left to sit back on the couch and wait, pausing the tape out of courtesy. 

When the skin had disappeared from the shower that first morning he hadn’t considered anything but Jon hiding it, and there was an awful satisfaction in knowing he was right. He rubbed his arm and stared at the blanket in his lap, still neat and folded. 

After a couple of minutes, Jon returned empty handed and resumed his seat. Pulling his blanket back up, he said, “It’s nothing… personal.”

“I know.” He took a deep breath and pressed play on the old remote, letting the child continue their new solo adventure. “I figured you hid it.”

“I appreciate that you told me.” His voice was stilted and unsure. “That you found it.”

“Sure, whatever helps.” Unfolding the blanket, he pulled it up to his shoulders and leaned on the arm rest. He could feel Jon fidgeting in place, turning the blanket so it faced the right way and making it tuck under him in the right places. Martin kept his eyes ahead.

Finally giving up on any further adjustments, Jon slouched into place. “It does help. I know my caution can come off as distrust, but genuinely I just… I need to keep it hidden. I need to know where it is and to be the only one who does. For now.”

“You… don’t need to justify anything.” Martin sighed and had to fight back a yawn. “It’s your coat.”

A grunt of frustration. “No, you don’t- It’s not a rational thing. I trusted you enough to tell you the truth, and yet I was barely into my first night here before I panicked and stowed it away.” He sat upright and let the blanket fall to his lap, quiet distress written across the lines of his forehead.

Grasping for words, Martin said, “You still haven’t known me that long. It’s not wrong to be careful.”

“That’s not the point,” Jon replied quietly, resting elbows on knees. “It hasn’t been all that long in the grand scheme of things, but a lot has happened. I consider you a friend. And yet I can’t stop feeling like everything is about to go wrong if I’m not careful.”

The hail continued to slam against the window, almost overpowering the sound of the television and the faun describing the witch’s plans. On the far side of the couch, Jon remained hunched over his own knees with his face bent in irritation. 

A wave of shame broke against him, but there wasn’t time to dwell on it. Carefully, Martin scooted over just enough to reach out a hand. His trembling fingers hovered just an inch away, brushing against the fabric of Jon’s shirt before coming to rest on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Jon whispered, massaging around his eyes with his fingers. He reached his free hand up to tentatively cover Martin’s, giving it a tiny squeeze. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Do you… want to keep watching?”

Jon nodded, shaking himself out a little. Martin released the gentle grip on his shoulder, though he didn’t move away. They both settled into the back of the couch and watched.

The child had gone back inside with the shivers, but no one was to be found. Around the halls she wandered, calling her siblings’ names with indignation that slowly turned to concern and then to fear. Eventually she was running, and it wasn’t until she was on the upper floor that one of her brothers popped out to scare the living daylights out of her. 

Deep down he remembered this part making him cry. Perhaps siblings weren’t worth it with how cruel children could be. 

Martin coughed. “You explored the sea as a kid, then?”

Jumping slightly, Jon said, “O-only a couple of times. And not far from the land. And it’s not as fun when you can only grab one thing at a time, with your mouth. I sorely missed my pockets and picking up sticks.” As he spoke, he resumed the more casual tone from before with modest success. 

“You thought checking out the sea with no real limits was too much of a hassle?”

With a roll of his eyes, Jon said, “It wasn’t entirely that. Eventually my grandmother warned me away from it. Told me about dangerous animals that absolutely weren’t native to the coast where we lived.” 

“Great white sharks?”

“Surrounding our seaside village on every watery side, ready to eat hapless little seal boys who didn’t listen to their nans.”

Martin chuckled, relaxing further into his seat and listening to Jon go on about all the ways his grandmother had tried and failed to reign him in. He could see it, a younger, scrappier version of the man next to him stomping around the woods and climbing fences. 

The instinct wasn’t all that relatable to someone like Martin who’d kept to the front porch on nice days, but it sounded like an adventure. Maybe it meant he was less likely to get eaten by an evil wardrobe out of the two of them. In his position he could only hope that was the case.

They called it for the night when, out of nowhere, a man suddenly appeared at half opacity screen and let out a screeching noise to close out an episode, making Jon laugh in a way that only could’ve been from exhaustion. 

Martin lingered downstairs for a while after they shut the television off. It was Friday, after all. For many reasons they couldn’t go out to a pub, but without the need to get up early he could afford to stay up a little longer and listen to a sleepy Jon talk over the tapping on the window panes.

--

Tim: not next weekend, but the one after i think. finally time to call it on preparation and get down to business, if this is something we can be prepared for

Martin: encouraging

Tim: look its been rough over here, alright? 

Martin: i know, sorry. itll be easier to talk once we’re all in one place 

Tim: yeah

Tim: things are ok over there, then? youre sounding better

Martin: ?

Tim: it was starting to get scary if im honest, how quiet you were

Martin: oh, sorry. things are fine, just didnt have a lot to say

Tim: yeah, i get it. its hard to fill the space. dont be a stranger though. in a few weeks we’ll be there to get you out of this mess

Martin: looking forward to it

Sighing, Martin looked from the private chat to Jon, who was ignoring his breakfast to type away at the laptop. “Sounds like the others are making plans to get here.”

Jon looked up briefly. “Good. It will be… nice to see them.”

“And show them you’re not dead?”

Ignoring this, Jon said, “How is Tim doing?”

He glanced back at his phone. “Worried. About a lot of things, I think.”

“Thinking of how he’s going to break my disappearance to you, no doubt,” he said, taking a sip of his tea. He avoided Martin’s eyes. “That’ll be resolved soon enough.”

Martin poked at the eggs on his plate. “He… lost someone, didn’t he?”

It was only for a moment, but Jon froze in the middle of setting his mug down. He seemed to struggle with an answer.

“It’s fine if you can’t say, but he implied as much,” Martin said gently.

With a frown, Jon shut the laptop. “Sasha knows more than I do, but yes. His brother, a few years ago.”

“Oh. That’s… really sad.” He leaned back in his chair. “He seems like he’d be a good brother.”

“I’m sure he was. He certainly looks out for us.” Jon took a bite of his toast.

“As best as he can,” Martin added sheepishly. 

“Once this is all finished he’s earned a vacation.”

Yes, they’d all given poor Tim their share of heart attacks. Martin had managed to several times in the last month. But at least when the time came Tim would see that both of them were alive and themselves and able to apologize for making his and Sasha’s lives just a bit harder than they needed to be.

Once it was all finished.

[janekfan]

Left Found

https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248915

Hunger.

Honed and piercing.

So corrosive and corrupt and consuming it was a wonder it even fit inside him anymore. Or maybe it was because he didn’t want it inside him anymore. Wanted to sweat it out like a fever, burn it out like mold and rot, tear it out of himself with his bitten-short fingernails until he couldn’t hear its constant demands.

It wanted to burst from his throat and it was everything on a good day to keep it inside, away from the others, swallowed down, down, down like acid where it couldn’t bother anybody.

It was hard to know just how much something could hurt until you tried to hide it from the people who once knew you best.

Tim was fixing his lunch in the breakroom. Jon Knew that.

Unbidden, the memories came, unstoppable and swift. The ache grew stronger with each one.

Soft, warm pats on the back, a mutual embrace after completing a difficult deadline. Tim was, used to be, casual touch, easy and affectionate to a little brother replacing the one he’d lost fitting into the space left behind like it was Jon’s place to fit. Comfort and care and Tim could make this stop the ache the hurt the pounding buried in his scarred skin down to the bone.

Tim could be an answer. A balm for the flickering, dying candle flame Jon still cultivated, protected from the rush of an entire ocean filling up his ears as he sank, awful deep, to a place where even sunlight didn’t dare reach its trembling fingers.

Tim doesn’t want to see you.

It was true, but Jon was desperate, needy, on the brink of screaming or tears or both and he needed someone to please help him because surely he was falling apart at his strained and stretched seams, all his dirty, ugly stuffing on display for the Archives to See.

“T’Tim.” Underwater and kilometers away his voice caused Tim to jump, spoon clattering into the sink as he cursed and turned and glared.

“You look shite, Boss.” Jon thought of all the iterations of himself that had come before, that should have prepared him for this moment. He knew more than anything, anyone, how to want without letting anyone know. Knew how to be alone and make it seem as though it had always been his choice to be so. “Seriously, what do you want? If this is more of your paranoid, supernatural rubbish, Jon.” Angry, Tim stalked forward, Jon stepped unsteadily back. Surprised (scared) and still needing.

“I, I, uh, what are you doing?” And instead of easy camaraderie, static rose in his throat, clashed against his teeth and forced its way between pursed lips at the same time red rage rose in Tim’s face as he strained against the compulsion and failed, words so fraught that even if Jon had been paying attention he wouldn’t have understood. Tim’s arms came up to frame Jon’s face as his palms collided heavily with the wall he crowded him against and he couldn’t hide his flinch.

“What. The fuck!?”

“I, I, I--”

“I, I,” he mocked, “Not enough to spy? You need to force it out of me? The fuck!” And Jon flinched again, cowering in the shadow of Tim’s bulk, breath too fast and pulse hammering in his head. “Christ, Jon.” And he hung his head, jaw so tight his molars were grinding together and for a moment Jon was sure he was going to be struck, bracing for it. Instead he stumbled as Tim shoved him roughly away and that was wrong. Tim didn’t do that and here Jon, stupid, stupid, stupid, had pushed him far enough. Another large hand smacked against his shoulder blade and he almost lost his footing, dizzied and sick and grateful when Tim didn’t follow him to his office. It was there he let himself go, let the tears come as he hid his stinging eyes in folded arms. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t...it just slipped out and he was sorry.

He wouldn’t be believed.

The burn of where Tim had pushed him was distracting and disquieting, stealing the stale air from his lungs and binding the too small cage of his ribs in knotted, tangled twine.

Not for the first time, Jon longed for the relief that would accompany his giving in to the monster, gathering up all his multitudinous selves and rejoicing in the hideous nature that would be his and his alone. Leave his friends (not your friends any longer) and embrace this transformation with the finality of the damned. After all, despite inumerable attempts to right all his wrongs, they knew his living in the world brought an irreparable damage. Jon existed at too steep a cost and the debt was becoming so heavy it was crushing his bones to sand in its punishing fist.

For now, he existed in the awful, liminal space between choices, an agony so deep seated and the sheer, impossible need, pulled like taffy in too many directions. Was this the end of things? No more kind touch. No one to be careful with him when he felt already so fragile.

Why did he have to make himself so hard to love?

“Ah!” His tailbone ached as he hit the ground sending sparks of sharp pain up his spine. “I’I’m sorry!”

“Shut your mouth!” Jon raised his arm to shield his face, breath heaving in shuddering gasps. He hadn’t meant it, he hadn’t, he hadn’t. What was wrong with him? “You alright?” Basira looked shaken, eyes just this side of too wide as Daisy ran rough fingers over her cheek, examining her closely, brows furrowed.

“Yeah.” She seemed dazed. He’d done that. Not on purpose. Never on purpose. Not to the people he loved. “Yeah, I’m alright.” Daisy nodded, that same unhinged look in her hard expression.

“Bas--”

“I said. Shut. Your mouth.” And he swallowed another apology, lurching to his feet and fleeing before Daisy could hit him again. Clumsy, he rushed through narrow corridors, colliding at the corners in his attempt to put more distance between them until he finally began to flag. He’d made it into the stacks, surrounded by boxes of statements like beacons begging him to look inside. Find the real ones. Read them. Taste them.

Consume.

He deserved this.

Jon didn’t know how long he sat there curled around his knees before Martin found him, but he was stiff and hurting, head pounding and stomach rolling from the heat buried in his skin, trying to claw its way out.

“Jon?” He must’ve looked up, because he was looking straight at Martin with the sudden realization that he had him boxed in between the shelves. “Hey,” calm, soft, talking down a wild animal but there were only the two of them here. “You don’t look well.” What was he talking about?

“M’fine.” His tongue was thick in his mouth, words of treacle and like a tide, Martin drifted in and out, Jon’s head was too heavy for his own neck.

“Jon?” Suddenly, a pale hand was reaching for him and he panicked. “Jon!” Shouting and loud and angry(?).

“Go away!” Static and bitterness flooded Jon’s throat, rushed to strangle him, and he coughed, sputtering, black coating his fingers as he tried to stop another accidental compulsion. He couldn’t bear to look up and witness the betrayal he knew he’d placed there and instead leaned forward to lose the ink threatening to choke him, watching it pool like an oil slick around his fingers.

“Jon!”

I’m sorry.

“Jon?”

I’m scared.

“Leave me alone!”

“Jon!” Fading, being carried away by struggling steps. “Jon!!” He clapped sticky hands over his ears until he was alone again.

Martin is kind to you.

Because he fears you.

Even if you let him help, he’ll leave you. Hurt you. You’ve ruined everything, you always do. You’re hurting them. You keep hurting them.

He wrapped his arms so tightly around himself, until his fingers were dug into his flesh, sucking down a heaving lung full of air because he’d forgotten how to breathe with all his wanting. Cracking apart, letting things in that he kept trying desperately to keep out, out, out.

Exhaustion caught him up despite how fast he ran from it, trapped him in a current he couldn’t control. Whirling eddies and rip tides left him gasping, sore all over from failing to hold on to something, anything to steady himself. Just get to the next second. One at a time. Unable to think of the full moment.

And he looked up into a kind and familiar face creased in concern.

Martin.

“Hullo, Jon.” Soft, so soft. Kneeling beside him. “Shh, you’re alright. I’m not angry with you.” He kept quiet. The buzzing was there, the Eye was demanding he ask, tell, order.

“Martin?” Shaky and small and closing his eyes against the touch of a palm against his forehead.

“You’re burning up.” The clot of fear, ink and ash, stopped up his voice box and kept him silent, barely clinging to the shreds of whatever he had left. Jon wanted to take Martin’s soft attention and turn his focus elsewhere, at someone more deserving than he could ever be. “You need to rest. You’re not well.”

Not well.

A cool flannel swept over his face leaving bliss in its wake before moving to envelop each finger, rid it of the tacky, drying blotches. Wary, he watched Martin’s deft hands fold the cloth to hide the mess, setting it aside.

“I’m going to take you home. You shouldn’t be alone, not right now.”

“M’m…” He wasn’t safe, he couldn’t control the Beholding. Even now it was feeding him information, rooting around in Martin’s head for things that didn’t belong to it. Luckily, Jon couldn’t hold on to any of it as he was, wearied and wasted.

“You didn’t mean it. You aren’t thinking clearly, not with a fever like that.” The words washed over him, soothing and soft. Martin shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be kind to him like this when Jon would only take it and twist it into something terrible. But he was being lifted to his feet, the rest of the world following along a beat behind in his crowded vision, and Martin had to catch him when his knees buckled under him. “Alright, steady, I’ve got you.” With Martin doing the majority of the work, they waded through pools of emergency lighting between empty desks, everyone long gone home by now. He didn’t remember the cab ride, now standing cold and shivering at the bottom of the set of stairs leading up to Martin’s flat. Glancing up, overwhelmed and overwrought, the thought of climbing them drew a sob from his tight chest.

Warmth at his elbow made him balk, eyes wide and searching when Martin held up his hands in a placating gesture, moving slowly and with calm, obvious intent. He was speaking. Jon could see his lips moving, but it didn’t make any sense and when the Eye reached blindly for it an icepick lodged itself firmly behind his ear. The next time Martin went to touch him, the effort he put in to avoid it ended with him twisting up his feet together and all he could do was watch the ground rise up to meet him. If he hit the floor he didn’t remember, prying apart heavy lids to take in unfamiliar walls.

Not alone.

Before he could panic, Martin crouched beside where he was laid out on a sofa, removing his shoes and smiling gently when he caught him staring.

“It’s okay.” Calm. Quiet. “It’s okay.” Again. Infinitely softer. The backs of steady fingers brushing against his forehead and when Jon closed his eyes against his kindness, tears slipped down his cheeks. “It’s okay.” And he let himself believe it, the relief heady and stealing away the last of his resolve. “Let’s get you tucked up and warm, hm? Slow now, that’s good.” The babble was comforting, easy to drift along in the current, and he let Martin tell him what to do, accepting the water, the tablets, and drinking both down. Allowing Martin to manhandle him into soft clothes to replace his stained ones. “Lay back, try to sleep.”

Martin’s bed.

Before he himself knew he’d moved, the sleeve of Martin’s jumper was tight in his trembling grip. He could feel it, his expression twisting up, ugly and disgusting, lips pressed tightly together to keep his begging in, to trap the want. Trap it behind teeth and tongue until Martin realized what he’d done and kicked him out.

Then he could let go again. Where no one could see how badly he needed.

“It’s okay.” The soft pass through his sweat damp and tangled curls undid the rest of him. “What do you need?” A sob, a laugh, a burst of static that made both of them wince. Desperate. And his crying stopped all else. A stillness descending so thick and deep it felt like drowning, throat blocked up with ink and sorrow and impossible agony.

Arms wrapped around him. Tight, hot bands of iron and despite the strength with which he was held it became easier to breathe and he gulped down air sweeter than anything he’d known in a long time.

It was dark. Darker than it had been before and he was something far beyond tired. Wrung out and stretched thin, unspooled like fine wire. Gradually, sensation trickled in. The scent of tea from the breakroom. Wash worn wool. Gentle hands. He was moving, just slightly. Swaying.

Small sounds he couldn’t parse fell like rain, soft and warm.

Laid carefully down, like he was a precious, breakable thing. Wrapped up, legs and limbs and warm, warm, warm. Greedy, selfish, he drank it in, clinging to Martin in the velvet dark, hand to hand, skin to skin, and it still wasn’t enough. How could it be when he’d gone so long without. When he’d never known anything else.

Hunger. Always there.

Even before he’d been cursed with this awful gift.

Gnawing and persistent but quieting in the wake of the grounding beat of Martin’s heart, everywhere and all around. In his own pulse, his blood, his body. His touch was fire to his frostbite; painful and so very good.

He wanted it. Wanted so badly to be warm again.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Jon buried his nose in Martin’s throat, shuddering under his hands. “Rest, Jon.”

Apricot light seeped between his lashes, lifting him up and out of sleep. His cheek was pillowed on Martin’s chest, the man’s fingers still buried in his hair.

It was gentle here. The static muted and buried under the quilts, no longer lurking, waiting for its chance to take.

“Fever’s down some.” But all the same he pressed him with more medicine before excusing himself to put the kettle on. Jon curled up in the warmth he left behind, clear headed and wondering, waking when Martin came back with tea and toast. “You should eat a little something.” Wordlessly, Jon opened his mouth. Closed it, worried that all he had left inside was the ability to compel, to steal. Martin busied himself with the meticulous application of jam on his toast and Jon appreciated the space. The patience he didn’t really deserve.

“Th’thank you. Martin.”

“How long have you been ill?” Jon shrugged one shoulder, forgoing his own toast and sipping on the tea instead.

“Thought.” What had he thought? He only remembered wanting. “I. I don’t know. It’s all…” he tried to gesture in a way that explained how twisted things had been with the fever and the hunger and the fog. It was lacking. “I’m sorry for--I, I didn’t m’mean to. I.”

Couldn’t control it.

Jon thought he could taste the ink threatening to make a reappearance and took another swallow. He felt somewhat better, still sick. Still worried.

“I’m not angry with you.” Jon stared into his tea. “Hey, look at me.” Martin lifted his chin with a touch. “I see you. I see you trying.” Tears welled in his eyes, spilling over only for Martin to brush them away. Jon set the cup aside and let himself fall into the broad chest, melt beneath the heavy hand cradling his head.

Safe.

Sated.

[equalseleventhirds]

Pilgrimage

I made a fun & friendly post about considering all the fates worse than death for a tragedy, and I got to talking to myself about it. Self, I said, if you were asked to write a terrible fate worse than death for these boys, what would it be? Well about that…

 - - -

Georgie hasn’t been to visit Jon since the apocalypse ended. Or, before that probably, she certainly hadn’t been popping in for a cuppa when she was trying to cut him out of her life. But then the world ended, and then unended, and Melanie has been insisting on having him around for dinner, or to go on a shopping trip, or just to visit the Admiral. Because they’re friends. Because this is what friends do: meet up, talk, and make sure their other friends aren’t alone.

Melanie’s been to visit Jon. Georgie hadn’t gone with her.

The… place where he lives is too creepy, she thinks. It was probably creepy back when Smirke built it, it was extra creepy when it was some impossible tower, and it’s still creepy now, even if it’s fallen down to earth. The Eye’s tower.

-

“So this is it? The Panopticon, or whatever?” Georgie felt Melanie’s hand shaking, and tightened her grip.

“…yes. I’m afraid so.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “See what I said about him being ominous?”

-

Jon opens the door before she knocks. It’s either some remnant of power in him, or he’d been watching out the window after Melanie called him. Georgie doesn’t ask.

“Hey, Jon.”

“Georgie. Hi.”

She steps inside, then stops. “Shoes on or off?”

“Oh, er… on. I haven’t quite finished cleaning all the… Shoes are probably better on.”

-

Jon was panting, standing over the nearly-empty chair where Jonah Magnus once sat. Martin laid a hand on his arm. “You did it, Jon. He’s gone.”

“That’s it? All done? You killed the big bad guy, so the apocalypse ends?”

He barely even winced at her tone. “It’s—I don’t think it’s going to be quite that simple—”

“Then why are we here—”

-

“Melanie sends her love, by the way.”

“Does she?”

“Yes.” She holds his gaze as levelly as she can. He just grins at her, holding his hand palm-out until she rolls her eyes and reaches into her bag. “Fine, and she sends her latest batch of halwa.”

“Thank you,” he says, plucking the container out of her hand and immediately popping it open to try a piece. “Mm… you can tell her she’s almost as good as my grandmother now.”

Georgie can’t hold back her laugh at that, short and disbelieving and a laugh, which she wasn’t sure she’d ever accomplish here. “Your grandmother always bought halwa at the store, you told me so—”

“Ah, yes. But I haven’t told Melanie, have I?”

“Jonathan Sims!”

-

It hurt. She’d thought she was immune to fear, to the fears, and maybe she was, to smaller ones. Normal ones. Real ones. But every ounce of impossible, enormous Fear that had clawed its way into their universe was bearing down on the tower at once, and Georgie wasn’t afraid, but it hurt.

“What now? What do we do? Jon, Jon, what happened, what do we do?”

“I…” She could see a trickle of blood coming from his nose… his eye… Hadn’t Martin said Jon couldn’t See anything about the Fears? Was that what he was trying to do? “I think… we can still stop it, maybe, but it’s… the tower, Jonah’s throne…”

“What do we have to do?”

-

They make it through about an hour, sharing out the halwa between them and chatting, about the books Jon finally has time to read, about the podcasts Georgie’s gotten Melanie into, about the really huge rug Jon’s planning to order when he gets everything cleaned up enough. It’s… it isn’t normal, but nothing’s really ever going to be normal again, is it? But it’s almost nice.

Except then she has to go and say the halwa’s made her thirsty (and it is sweet and dense and perfect, Melanie did an amazing job and she’s going to rat Jon out as soon as she gets home, and Georgie really cannot eat something that sweet at her age without something to wash it down). And then Jon gets up to make tea. And stops at the cupboard, and pulls out three mugs.

He doesn’t look at her, keeps his eyes on the kettle, on the mugs, on the tea bags, on his hands. But eventually he says, low but clear: “Whenever I make tea, I. Um. Bring some to him. He can’t really drink it, but it helps me feel better.”

And what can she say to that?

-

Jon stared at the seat, the throne, horror dawning on his face. She could tell—they all could tell—that he Knew what to do. He just had to tell them.

Martin grabbed his arm, shook him, spun him around to look at them. “Jon. I know this is—hard, for you. But what do we need to do?”

“Not us. Me. What I need to do. Someone touched by the eye, and who more than me?” He was biting at his lips, and she recognized the rhythm, from when he was stressed from essay after essay and trying to calm himself. “I have to take his seat. There has to be a king.”

“If there’s a king—” Melanie’s voice was strained, from the fear or the Fear, and Georgie tightened her grip again “—then wouldn’t it just be the same? Someone ruling over this, this ‘ruined world’?”

Jon was already shaking his head. “No, not if it’s now. Not if it’s someone who wants to stop it. Dream logic, remember? Except.”

“Except?” Melanie prompted.

“Except they won’t be able to leave. They’ll be—be trapped in the fear forever. In everyone’s fears, forever. Like I was, with the dreams, but for seven billion people—”

Georgie couldn’t help the gasp at that. “The dreams like we—with you watching all the time—”

“—or, more like our journey here, when we went through all those domains,” he continued, as if he couldn’t hear her. Maybe he couldn’t, with all his attention locked on Martin, drinking him in like it would be the last time he ever saw his face. “Because, because it’s here, and I said—Martin, I told you at the beginning, the eye can’t see inside itself, so I’d be—”

“Alone,” Martin whispered. “Always watching, and alone.”

-

She goes with him. Of course she goes with him. On some level, that’s what this visit has been about—seeing Jon, sure, but also seeing… Martin.

Martin is the whole reason Jon’s here, after all. Living in the ruins of the Panopticon. Living at all.

Georgie doesn’t look away. Doesn’t wait in the other room (the little living space Jon had made with curtains and boxes and a folding divider Melanie found for him), safe and ignorant. She knows Jon wouldn’t blame her. Might encourage her, if she brought it up, even if she said she had to go.

She thinks she might blame herself if she did.

It’s still difficult to stand there and watch without some kind of distraction, though, so she does bring her tea with her.  Bobs the bag up and down (Jon remembers she likes to leave it in even after she adds sugar and milk, like some kind of monster, he’d teased back in uni, before that word became so damn loaded), clinks the spoon against the side.

She’s trying not to stare, but there’s not a lot else to look at, besides… there’s not a lot else to look at. He must have brought that little end table in here pretty soon after moving in, set it up next to the chair with a lamp and a book and… a pillow on the floor next to it.

She doesn’t ask.

Now Jon sets the third mug down and carefully, carefully pries Martin’s hand off the arm of the chair, pushes his fingers to curl around the mug, guides them down together to the table. He keeps one hand on the mug, like he’s afraid Martin will move suddenly and spill it. Maybe it’s happened before.

There’s only so long she can avoid looking, of course. And Martin looks… a lot like the last time she saw him, just after the end of the end of the world. Very, very still, sitting upright, although Jon’s gotten him some cushions and a blanket since then. His eyes are still wide, too wide, and staring at nothing. At everything. At everything but what matters.

And his lips are slowly, slowly moving.

-

“But why does it have to be you! It’s always you! The whole world is touched by the Eye now, isn’t it? Can’t it be—I wanted you to—”

“I’m—I ended the world, Martin, it’s only right I fix it.” He was pleading now. “I just—Martin, please.” Jon reached up, curling his hand around the back of Martin’s neck, and pulled him down until their lips just brushed.

He closed his eyes, and Georgie wanted to look away, leave them this one last moment together. She’d be glad, later, that she didn’t, that she kept watching, watched them kiss, watched their tears, watched Jon break away and head towards the chair. Watched Martin grab him and push him away, taking the seat himself.

“Martin, no—”

Martin turned his head, slow, so slow, smiling one last time at Jon. “When are you going to stop blaming yourself?”

-

“Is he… talking?” She moves closer, squinting. “What… what’s he saying?”

Jon smiles, brushing his thumb over Martin’s slow-moving lips. “The same things he said to people in the apocalypse, of course. No matter how many times I told him they couldn’t hear him.”

And Georgie can see it now, the minute shapes, forming words as familiar as any casual conversation.

Excuse me… Sorry about this… How are you?… You’ll get through this… Just hang on… Hi there…

- - -

End notes: Every once in a while (not every night, bcos he has 7 billion ppl to get through), if someone were to look at the unchanging body of Martin Blackwood, and if they were good at reading lips, that someone might be able to see him talking one Jonathan Sims through his fear dreams. Of course, no one does see that; the only person who’s close enough would be asleep at the time.

[that-one-girl-behind-you]

Illicio 18/?

Part 17

CW for: -Canon-typical violence, body horror and gore  -Some characters talk about the not so great mental state they were in, including suicide ideation.

"Where are they? Elias, if you-" Jon's rather pathetic attempt at a threat is cut off by Elias' gleeful cackle.

"Calm down, Jon. Gerard's merely a bit... lost in thought. As for Martin, the door is open, if you want him back."

"What door? Elias, what did you do?" Jon snarls, pouring the compulsion thick into the question.

"I cashed in a favor. Or rather, a wager." Elias smiles. "You've grown fairly powerful, haven't you?"

"Elias-"

"You'll find Martin right where you put him." Elias' eyes gleam dangerously, his smile still sharp on his face. "In the Lonely."

XVIII

"Nah. I convinced them I'm not suicidal, mostly because, you know, I'm not? Anyways, they're letting me go this weekend. I'll call you when I'm settled, we'll have a sleepover that doesn't involve eye gouging, how about that?" Melanie smirks in his direction, and Gerry rolls his eyes.

"That's my preferred kind of sleepover."

"You have very low standards," Tim mutters in the background.

"I mean yeah." Melanie shrugs. "He's dating Jon."

"I'll take offense to that," Georgie laughs, closing the door to the room behind her after coming in.

Gerry lets his head fall back against the glass, closing his eyes to feel the rattle of the car as the tube makes its way through London's entrails. Melanie's looking well enough, her injuries healing at a slow, human pace that Gerry can't help but to be hopeful about.

"So you don't feel the need to go back?" Tim asks, leaning against the corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. It may be a bit risky to bring an avatar whose powers manifest as fire into a place with so much oxygen and defenseless people, but Tim looks calm for once, no hint of orange in the depths of his dark eyes. "When I left, I started feeling the withdrawal right away. Not like... at first it wasn't pain, I just 'wanted' to come back."

"Nope!" Melanie grins, popping the 'p' with such satisfaction that Gerry can't help but to chuckle along with Georgie. "The only place I want to go to is home."

"Aren't you lucky," Tim says a bit sullenly, but when Gerry looks over he's got the slightest hint of a smile on his face, albeit a sad one.

Tim is sitting two seats away, but Gerry can still feel both the heat -the burns on his skin throbbing in ghost pain- and the conflict emanating from him. Maybe this is why Jon used to feel so comfortable around him, Tim wears his heart on his sleeve and there's no guessing at what he's feeling, regardless of if that feeling holds something good in store for you or not.

"What is it?" Gerry asks after a few more seconds. He doesn't turn to look at Tim, but they both know his words are aimed at him.

Tim's voice, when it comes, holds all the fragility of diamond, hard and sharp and waiting for something to hit at just the right angle to crumble to dust. "Do you- I wonder if this would work on Martin."

Gerry snorts, his tentative good mood wiped away like so much dust under the rain. "Are you asking me?"

"You care," Tim says. It's not a question, and Gerry doesn't bother denying it. Thinking about Martin feels eerily like waiting outside of a locked room, kept barely alive by a voice not done justice by the magnetic tape in a recorder, hoping, praying that the coffin will open, that he will come back, for someone else if not for him.

He keeps hoping the story will end the same, but he knows better than to dare think he'll be lucky twice.

"I don't know that breaking Martin from the Eye is our biggest concern anymore." Gerry sighs. "He told Jon no when he offered."

"...So? Are you just going to leave it like that?" Out the corner of his eye, he sees Tim scowl something fierce. "Jon said the fucking same, are you two just going to sit there and make eyes at each other while he turns?"

"We're trying, alright?! Jon's running himself ragged trying to Know enough that Martin doesn't have to depend on Lukas anymore, and I can keep telling Martin he's more important than the Extinction, but he's too damn stubborn-"

"He said you broke into his flat just to make him talk-"

"Well, you live with him. If you can't bring him back, why-"

"Oh, shut up!" Tim groans, crossing his arms over his chest and throwing his head back to look at the roof "Shut up, for real. You're pissing me off, and we're underground, you're going to make me blow up half the city."

Gerry rolls his eyes, a resigned huff escaping his lips. "Sometimes I wish I'd convinced you to stay behind when we went to get the Dark Sun. I don't know what Lukas did to him, but I doubt he would've done it I'd you'd been here."

"You know what? I do, too." Tim remains focused on the roof of the car, his fingers tapping against his arm in an incessant rhythm that leaves melted indentations on his skin. "I should've stayed where it mattered."

They don't say much after that. What else could they add? He can deny it until he's blue in the face, but they both know Manuela Dominguez burned because Tim still holds Jon dear, whether he likes it or not.

Still, Tim's words weigh heavy in his mind as they climb up the steps to the street and start the short trek to the Institute. It's- he's right. Whatever they promised Martin, this has gone too far. Martin might be ready to sacrifice it out of some misplaced lack of self worth, but nothing is worth his life, not even saving the world. And if he has to break into Martin's office and convince him of it, well... it won't be the first time, at least.

He starts on the stairs up towards the Institute's upper floors, only to stop when he notices Tim is no longer following. When he turns around, Gerry finds him standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face turned towards the door and his eyes overtaken by the bright orange of the Desolation.

"...Are you okay?" Gerry asks, arching an eyebrow.

Tim scowls at whatever it is he's looking at, but lifts a hand to stop him when Gerry makes to walk back down. "You going to see Jon?"

"Martin, actually," Gerry admits. Tim nods.

"Fine. You do that. I'll be down at the Archives." He gestures to the stairs going down instead.

It is a bit odd, but there's something else tugging at his mind right now. Something feels off today crawling under his skin like a many legged being. He wonders for a moment if this is the Spider pulling at him, before he resolves that one way or another it won't do to dwell on it. He feeds the Mother of Puppets either by fearing the manipulation or by fighting against it; the best he can do is be prepared for whatever it is he's being pushed into.

"-ou are. I was starting to fear you'd gotten cold feet." Gerry freezes before turning the corner to enter the corridor that takes to Martin's office. Lukas' voice is light and amused enough that Gerry wants to rearrange his face, mostly because he knows there's only one person in the Institute Lukas really talks to.

"I haven't," Martin says, and he sounds like a gray afternoon given a voice.

"Wonderful! I'd hate for you to give up after so much hard work, when we're already at the finish line. We can go down, then."

Martin doesn't answer, not even when Lukas lets out a satisfied chuckle. Gerry leans around the corner as soon as the familiar static of the Lonely starts ringing in his ears, and he's just in time to see the last of Martin's back disappear into a wall of fog.

The finish line.

Gerry frowns; the Eye won't volunteer any information about what Lukas is talking about, not even when he tries to Look, but if this means that he's done with whatever he was pushing Martin into, then this can't be good. Should he go look for Jon? Would the Eye let him know where they-

"You're looking real unhappy there, dear." Helen's voice doesn't really make him jump as much as merely draws him out of his reverie. "Did you lose something?"

"Someone." Gerry huffs.

"The pessimism... you've been hanging with Jon too much, I'd say."

"If you happen to know where they're going-"

"They're real funny," Helen chuckles. It makes Gerry a bit dizzy, but he merely lays a hand on the wall to steady himself. "They kept saying they needed a map, like there aren't better ways to get to places."

Gerry freezes, the implications of the Distortion's words deafening in his mind.

"Helen?" he asks almost shakily. If he can reach Martin and ask Helen to get the others- "Is it a door that they needed?"

Helen merely stands there before him, her smile curling into itself and her door partly opened behind her.

Gertrude would eat him alive for being so stupid, so selfish, Gerry thinks with a bitter sort of amusement. What gives him the right to stop Martin from saving the world, just because of anything he or Jon may or may not feel?

Probably nothing, but maybe it's high time he tries being self-centered for once, he decides before he walks into the Distortion's corridors.

-----------------------------------

It had taken him a few blocks to place the feeling, but when he finally did Tim found it laughably easy to put a name to it.

At first it feels like a prickle at his nape, the feeling of being watched, and he ignores it because it's far from an uncommon occurrence at the Institute. It's only when he feels the urge to hasten his pace that it clicks in his mind, even when it doesn't feel quite the same as when he first caught sight of Jon ducking behind a corner on his way home.

The Hunt is insidious, playing at your most basic instincts as it chases you to where you'll be easier to strike down. Now that he's recognized it, Tim finds it all too easy to shake it off. Instead the Desolation sparks to life inside his chest, aching for a good fight, for destruction, for the delicious sorrow that lays promised by the bond between the two hunters.

It's a bit funny how they don't notice when he flips the tables, coming back through the Institute's front doors just in time to see the back of the old man disappearing into the alley behind the institute; how very Hunt-like, to underestimate the 'prey'.

They head straight for the door that leads down to the Archives, and Tim feels the burning in his chest grow hotter.

Daisy wasn't lying when she said they were opportunistic, but she failed to mention just how fatally uninformed they were. He still feels the sequels from yesterday, and Jon was trying not to hurt him. Even if they reached him, what chance do they hope to have against the Archivist on his home turf?

He waits until their steps have faded down the stairs, before pushing the door open again and slipping in himself, and he wonders if maybe in another life he wouldn't have shared a patron with them, with how fervently he tracked the Stranger, and how easily he falls into the role of the hunter now.

Jon did kill the thing that took Sasha, and he's not too fond of owing favors.

-----------------------------------

Dying is not so terrible, Daisy thinks. Or maybe it's Basira -as always- that makes it tolerable.

It's cold by the entrance to the tunnel, but the cot itself is warm enough that Daisy doesn't shiver -she doesn't think she has the strength for it- in Basira's arms.

She doesn't smell the scent of tears or despair, and it only hurts a little. She wasn't expecting Basira to cry, or be devastated. In fact, she was counting on it. One of the things she fell in love with was Basira's stability, always a safe port to come home to in the middle of the storm that is Daisy's rage.

She's looking down at her on her lap, lightly brushing Daisy's hair off her face. All the hair was brushed away long ago but still Basira runs her fingers softly over her cheekbones, her forehead, her closed eyelids, and it feels like drifting off to sleep on a sunny windowsill.

It's far too peaceful an end, for all the pain she's caused.

"Basira-" she starts, only to stop a second after, her eyes shooting open at the sound of running feet and hurried breathing, the cloying scent of fear like a shot of adrenaline straight into her expiring heart.

"Jon?" Basira asks, her body tensing under Daisy's in preparation for- for what? "What's going on?"

Daisy chokes back a strained laugh. Of course something else would happen now that Basira has finally run out of excuses to let her die.

"I'm- I- Daisy?" Jon's voice is shaky, and the scent of fear intensifies. It makes her want to howl that she's not only unable to assuage his distress, but that she's a part of it now. "What is- the Hunt-"

"Jon, what do you want?!" Basira snaps.

Jon flinches. "Martin, I- he left me- I don't think he's coming back." There's a tape recorder in his hand, and what makes Daisy sit up on the cot is that he looks like he sounded in the Buried, lost and trapped and all devoid of hope.

"Where's Gerry?" she asks. "He's good at finding Martin. Bringing him back."

"That's- I don't know," Jon says shakily. "I'm- I tried to See him, but- I think he's inside Helen? I don't know- he doesn't feel like he's in danger, but-"

"And can't you See Martin?" Basira arches an eyebrow. "If you can See inside the Distortion-"

"I'm- I can't usually do that." Jon huffs almost angrily. "I can sort of See inside Helen because Gerry's in there, like-"

"Like you're looking through him?" Daisy supplies, when he seems to be out of words. Much to her despair, she feels reenergized already, like the mere idea of a goal is enough to fuel the embers of the Hunt inside her. She can feel Basira's eyes on the side of her face, and she knows she's already plotting, scheming some way to keep her around longer.

"Exactly, yes." Jon nods. "And only barely enough to feel that he doesn't think he's in danger. But when I try to See Martin, it's- it's like- like two mirrors in front of each other. I know it doesn't make any sense, but-"

"Nevermind that." Basira climbs to her feet in a smooth move "We can find him."

Daisy doesn't miss the use of the plural, nor the way her glowing green eyes fix on her with that look she knows all too well. It's a look that beckons her to follow, a siren call she has little to no hope of refusing. She heaves a sigh before she stands from the cot as well, smacking Jon on the shoulder.

"Couldn't wait until I was buried to drag me out again, could you?" she asks.

Jon gives her a small, sad smile. "I'm sorry."

Daisy shrugs. She'll stick around just for a few more hours, just for them.

"Let's find those two."

-----------------------------------

There's a body below the institute.

This is, of course, not the first time this has happened, Martin thinks, and the thought almost feels amusing. The handle of the knife Peter placed in his hand after the whole explanation about the Panopticon feels almost vulgar in its suggestion that violence is the only way to save the world.

"I must admit, he's not at all as surprised as I expected he'd be." says a voice that Martin still hears in his nightmares from time to time. When he turns around, Elias is standing across Peter, the two of them framing the door like guardian statues. He looks immaculate, his suit clean and freshly pressed, his tie perfectly knotted at his throat. Martin arches an eyebrow, wondering if he factored in enough time for grooming when breaking out from jail, and Elias chuckles. "Speaks wonders of your job I suppose."

"A natural, I told you. Now Martin, if you'd move along please?" Peter says without taking his eyes off Elias. The smirk on his face speaks of familiarity, the kind of look you give someone that you know will be incensed by it. "I didn't count on us having an audience, but I guess I should've known."

"Can't a man watch his own death?" Elias' lips curve upwards like the edge of the blade in Martin's hand. "Also, you must admit it's much more.... poetic, this way, Peter."

"I'll concede on that." Peter turns towards Martin again. "What's keeping you?"

"This is you, isn't it?" It's not that big of a leap, the Panopticon, Jonah Magnus, and the Eye's biggest servant. Elias' widening grin is answer enough. "Will the others survive?"

"I'm surprised you care." Peter says, and Martin rolls his eyes.

"I-"

"He doesn't. But he knows he should. Again, impressive." Elias shrugs, and for all that Martin stands over his body with a knife, he couldn't look less bothered. "But in the interest of truth-"

"Oh, you care about that now?" Peter cackles in the background.

"The answer is, I'm not sure." Elias raises his voice a little. "But making an educated guess, most of the ones you used to care about should fare just fine. Tim and Melanie are well out of my reach. Your new allegiance should protect you from the worst of it, like the Hunt should miss Tonner, if she wasn't so keen on starving herself. I'm not sure about the Detective, ever the rogue variant, but thanks to our patron's little present, Jon is powerful enough that he should survive as well-"

"Don't call him that," Martin mutters quietly to himself. He doubts Elias is listening, anyways; he's much too fond of his own voice.

"-egular workers of the Institute will be affected of course, though there is no telling just how grave the damage will be. But I know you don't care about that, and you know that too, don't you Martin?"

He's... really irritating, Martin decides.

"I do." Whether he means he does care or he merely knows he doesn't, Martin isn't too sure himself.

"Always very self-aware, yes." Elias has the gall to nod like a proud mentor, and Martin rolls his eyes. "I would say then that the only variable to factor in is whether or not you want to kill me."

"I really do." And for so many reasons, too.

"Then go ahead, Martin." Peter steps forward, and Martin sees Elias watching him from the back like a snake about to strike. It's actually pretty funny, that they're both so sure they've cornered the other. "Kill him, and help me save the world."

"I don't think I will, actually." Martin shrugs, tossing the knife aside with a careless flick. The delight he feels at Peter's confused frown is muted, but it's definitely there.

"I- what?" Peter stutters. Elias' grin grows even sharper behind him. "Martin, this is not the time for games, the world is at stake here, and-"

"See, that's where you messed up. All those details that didn't add up, the insistence that I was some sort of- of world savior? Far too grand for me." Elias breaks down in cackles, and Martin covers his flinching by crossing his arms over his chest. "It really wasn't that hard to see through all the bull you were trying to serve me."

"Serve- Martin, I never lied to you. The Extinction is coming and-"

"I don't doubt it." He waves the matter away. "But this is not about the Extinction, is it? It's just whatever pases for a game between you two, using people as your betting chips, and I don't want any part in it. I'm out."

"But you said-"

"What you wanted to hear, mostly." Martin shrugs again; the feeling of perverse delight growing more and more alive in his chest. Who knew that pettiness was an emotion just as effective against the Lonely?

"You projected too hard on dear Martin, it seems," Elias says after his laughter has subsided. Peter looks fit to boil, his pale face sporting ugly red blotches as he rounds up on Elias.

"This is your doing," he says. Elias' carefully knotted tie crumples in Peter's clenched fist. "How-"

"It wasn't him." Martin interrupts again, feeling more tangible by the second out of sheer indignation. "It was me, always me. I came to you because Jon was dead and it seemed like the most useful thing I could do for the others was letting you do your thing. I thought it would even be a good way to get killed, but you lost any hold you might've had the moment Jon woke up." It's almost cathartic to let everything out after so much lying. It certainly is rewarding to watch Peter's face lose more and more color with each word. "Suddenly I had a reason again, and it was very easy to pretend I was going along with your schemes, if it meant keeping him safe. You had me for a while when you started dropping hints about the Extinction, but it was just too much, you know? I'm not exactly a- a 'chosen one', or a hero, but it was the best way to figure out what your end game was."

"But- I can feel the Lonely around you, it's-"

"Sure, it's there. Always has been, maybe. But if this is the final test, then- then I guess failed." The silence that blankets over the Panopticon after his words is so dense Martin can almost taste it. He wonders if the other two can hear the frantic beating of his heart.

"You- no." Peter shakes his head. "This- you have no idea what you've done, you've doomed-"

"I did warn you, Peter." Elias speaks, sweet and cloying like festering rot. "Now, sore loser is a terrible look on you, so get on with it."

"Get on with what?" Martin scowls, trying to ignore the shiver that bleeds down his spine when Elias' amused smile turns towards him. "I thought he couldn't use the Panopticon."

"That ship has sailed, I'm afraid." Elias shakes his head, tutting under his breath. "Really, one way or another you shouldn't have anything to fear, Martin. If your allegiance to the Lonely's strong enough, you should be able to walk right back out. If it's not... then you just have to hope Jon's allegiance to you is strong enough."

"I'm- what?" Martin frowns. Why would Elias want Jon to go get him from- oh. Oh, crap, how could he have been so stupid?! He steps back, when a tendril of fog begins to wrap itself around his ankle. "Wait, I-"

"I'll do it." Martin feels his blood freeze in his veins, when he whips around and finds Gerry standing by the entrance to the Panopticon, his hand wrapped around the knife Martin discarded just a few minutes ago.

"What on earth are you doing here?" Peter asks, his hand still extended towards Martin, but the fog momentarily at ease. Martin takes a few more steps back, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order because this is not good. Gerry shouldn't be here, he can handle the Lonely, but he can't leave Gerry alone with these two-

"If you want him dead so badly, I'll kill him, and use the damned thing for you." Gerry steps towards the body with knife in hand, and Martin has a split second to appreciate that Elias no longer seems so amused, even getting closer to the body himself. "Let Martin go."

"You don't have any bonds with the Lonely." Peter arches an eyebrow, but he's starting to lower his hand. Fuck, this- this isn't good.

"Does that really matter? I could hardly be more marked by the Eye. I'll use it for you, just let Martin-"

"Are you crazy?" Martin snaps, whipping around to face him again. "Get out of here, I-"

"Peter." Elias hisses in the background, and Peter grunts.

"As much as it'd please me to use the Eye's own gifts against it-" Peter starts, every word sounding like a forced pleasantry. The edges of Martin's vision blur with thick, white fog that pulls at his core almost as much as his mind reels from it. "-I am a man of my word."

"What- wait-" Gerry takes a step towards him, reaching a hand to grab at Martin's shoulder.

"Say, Gerard," Elias' voice cuts in, loud and laced with static as he steps between Gerry and his body. "Have you ever wondered how your father died?"

Gerry's face goes contorts in pain as the memories are forced in, and Martin flinches in sympathy.

"Go away!" Martin snaps, before whipping around to face Elias. "Cut it out, I'll go in-"

"The marks, Martin-" Gerry grunts. "Stay-"

"You were sleeping while she butchered his body. A spirited woman, your mother, but not the finest planner-"

Gerry shakes his head like trying to shake the foreign thoughts loose, a thin stream of ink running down his philtrum, staining his lips black.

"Like you'd fucking know- Martin? Martin, look at me!" He orders, like Martin isn't already doing so, like he isn't actively trying to give in to the pull of the Lonely -if he goes, they'll leave him alone, they have no other reason to keep him-

"She did love him, you know? Or she loved his devotion for her at least. It's quite funny, actually. Good old Eric fought so hard to break free of our patron, and he never once stopped to wonder if he wasn't running into something worse. His end was quite gruesome, even for one of Gertrude's assistants." Elias' eyes gleam with dark amusement when they meet Martin's, and the threat in them is clear. "He thought her steps sounded different that afternoon, but he was only starting to get used to getting by on his remaining senses, and she'd been so gentle and caring to him lately-"

"Stop..." Gerry snarls "I don't care, I never knew him, you can't-"

"Oh, but you could have. If he hadn't been so arrogant, if he hadn't tried to plan so much smarter than he was. You should be careful which of your parents' footsteps you want to follow, though I suppose both trails are marked in blood."

"Elias, stop!" Martin shuts his eyes tight to not see Gerry's pained expression, focusing on the cold, slimy feeling of the fog that resides within his core, but he can't- the Lonely's refusing to come to his call, and Martin wants to scream, because when Gerry warned him so many months ago that he'd ruin his plan, Martin wasn't expecting it to be by making himcare so much for him. "Peter, just- do it already!"

The man's face is veiled in satisfaction, and Martin has no doubt that he too knows Martin won't survive the Lonely like this, and the act is as much a fulfillment of the wager with Elias as it is his revenge for Martin unraveling his plans.

"Martin!" Gerry throws himself forward, and Martin feels his hand pass straight through his front.

The last hint of color he sees before the grey takes it away is that heart-wrenching mix of green and blue.

-----------------------------------

Martin's trail is a soft green against the dirty stone floor of the tunnels. Not as easy to follow as Daisy's, and mingled with a sickly grey one that smells of salt and absence.

"These tunnels don't make sense," she grunts after taking a left turn for the sixth time in a row.

"They change." Jon sniffles behind her, his footsteps light and hurried in contrast with Daisy's heavier, determined ones. "I feel a sort of- a pull, towards the center. I'm guessing that's where Martin is?"

Basira doesn't respond, sure, Jon could've come down here himself, but then Daisy would've given up, would've died in her arms without the interruption, without the goal.

"Do you feel Gerry?" Daisy asks. There's a light growl to her voice that wasn't there before, and it makes Basira stop a little. "Is he alright?"

"He's- I think he found Martin. It's like the two mirrors thing, whenever I try to See any of them." Jon wipes a hand across his brow, letting out a soft, sheepish chuckle. "I'm- I feel blind."

"We're being followed," Daisy says calmly, and Basira spins around on her heel. The Hunt doesn't manifest with light, there is no eerie glow to her warm brown eyes, but Basira sees her fingers curled in the shape of claws, and the stiff line of her back just as clearly, the blood simmering under her skin, not yet boiling but very much threatening to. "Are you going to come out, or will you keep hiding like rats?"

Basira's gun is on her hand in an instant, and she pulls Jon behind her, a rush of adrenaline coursing through her veins at the familiarity of falling into step with Daisy.

"Must admit- I'd been hopin' you'd be dead by now." She doesn't know the old man that comes from behind the corner they just turned, but she can guess who it is just by the distortion to his features, his too-wide grin full of too-sharp teeth, his eyes that reflect the light of their torches in the way no human could. "We wanted to have Jonny boy for ourselves for a bit."

"We got a few statements we'd like to give." And if that's Trevor Herbert, then this must be Julia Montauk, of course.

"You didn't dare go against Daisy and me last time," Jon pipes in from behind Basira, and she contemplates turning around and strangling him herself, because of course Jon will hear danger ask for him by name and be a smartass about it. "Now there's three of us. Doesn't sound too smart."

"But see, we're well out of your dear Archives now, Jon dear." Julia takes a step to the side that Daisy mimics, keeping herself between the groups. "And your guard dog here looks like a famished mutt. I like our chances, actually."

"Brought this on yourself, really." The old hunter cracks his neck, running a red tongue over his teeth. "We'd have let you live, you were going around stopping rituals even, but you just had to go and take that page out."

Basira feels more than she sees Jon's patience dwindling. There's static in the air sure, but there's something in her connection to the Eye that reacts to him getting ready for a fight.

"Easy, Jon," she mutters, her gun trained on the old man's forehead.

"We're wasting time. I need-"

"Go, just follow your call," says Daisy, without moving an inch from where she's facing the other woman down. Basira can See the blood rising hotter and angrier inside her, and Daisy's almost back to looking like herself, the light back in her eyes, the steel in her spine, the slightest hint of a smirk as she stares Julia down. "We'll take care of this."

Jon hesitates for a moment; Basira can see the struggle in his eyes, going from Daisy to the hunters to her-

"Just go!" Basira snaps. "You know what's going on here, go find out what's happening there!"

And well, maybe it is underhanded, to use his worry for those two against him, but if it gets him to leave...

"I'll come back," Jon says hurriedly.

Basira nods. "Or I'll find you. Go!"

He rushes down the tunnel; Basira wonders, daring a look over her shoulder to catch a glimpse of his awkward race around a corner, is this the last she sees of Jonathan Sims?

"That's cute!" Julia snarls, calling her back to attention. The faint orange glow behind her is easy to miss, but Basira recognizes it easily enough. "You're getting very high and mighty there."

"This one is not even a full avatar," Trevor gestures at Basira with a chuckle, and it feels both relieving and insulting. "You can't take the two of us alone, not in your state."

"I don't know. What was it you said a moment ago?" Tim speaks from behind them, causing the two hunters to whip around to face him. His eyes glow like two angry embers; Basira remembers this Tim not from the night before the Unknowing, but from the warehouse up North. "I like our chances."

-----------------------------------

The pull at his chest is not foreign to Jon, though it feels as different as day and night from the one he followed to find Gerry when the hunters came the first time.

It's something built into him from the moment he opened his eyes as the Archivist, something that ties him to the Archives, to whatever it is that lays at the middle of this labyrinth, and Jon despises it.

Still he follows it, heading to whatever fate awaits him willingly, for them.

The chamber he finds himself in is enormous, the walls made up entirely of cells with thick bars covered in rust. At the center, stands a tower made up of blackened stone, the very top domed in clouded glass, and the Beholding drops a word in his mind with all the ceremony of an artist revealing their Magnum Opus.

The Panopticon.

"So good you could join us, Jonathan." Elias's voice hits him like a hammer to the chest, and only then does Jon notice him standing at the base of the turret, his arms crossed behind his back and smiling beatifically in his direction. "Was it hard, finding the place?"

"Not- not too much." Jon steps closer carefully. He still can't See Martin or Gerry, but Elias being here -how did he get out of jail? Was he ever really trapped there?- is not a great signal.

"Because I called you." Elias nods. "I thought you might want to pick up what you lost."

Shit.

"Where are they? Elias, if you-" Jon's rather pathetic attempt at a threat is cut off by Elias' gleeful cackle.

"Calm down, Jon. Gerard's merely a bit... lost in thought. As for Martin, the door is open, if you want him back."

"What door? Elias, what did you do?" Jon snarls, pouring the compulsion thick into the question.

"I cashed in a favor. Or rather, a wager." Elias smiles. "You've grown fairly powerful, haven't you?"

"Elias-"

"You'll find Martin right where you put him." Elias' eyes gleam dangerously, his smile still sharp on his face. "In the Lonely."

"W-"

"As much as I'd enjoy a chat, I'd advise against dallying. He was in a bit of a state when he went in. Not too suited to survive in there, even after all these months." Elias takes a step aside, clearing the way to the stone stairs that curl up around the body of the tower. "Good luck, Jonathan. I'll be seeing-"

Whatever he was going to say next, Jon doesn't care to know. He rushes past him, climbing the stairs as quickly and as carefully as he can, keeping away from the edge because he wouldn't put it past himself to simply trip and snap his neck.

The interior of the turret is mostly empty, but his eyes pick up on three details immediately. The first is the dessicated body sitting at the center of the eye carved on the stone floor. He Knows who he is, and who the man outside isn't, but right at this moment, he couldn't care less.

The second thing he notices is the door to the Lonely, like a tear on dark fabric leaking out a soft silvery light and heavy wisps of fog that drift down to the floor.

Gerry's crumbled next to the body like a puppet whose strings were cut off. His arm stretched out towards the rift, and he's bleeding, a puddle of acrid-smelling ink under his head.

Jon rushes to his side, falling to his knees beside him and turning his head as carefully as he can.

"Gerr- I- can you hear me?" he asks, his heart beating so hard he's worried it'll punch a hole right through his chest. Gerry's eyes are wide and glassy and Beholding green, and his papery white lips move around words Jon cannot hear, but he's alive, and that means they have a shot still.

"I need- Gerry, I- you have to wake up now. I'm-" This is- he's so bad at this. How do you call a person back? I'm sorry but I love you, please don't go? "I need you, please."

-----------------------------------

"Told ya!" The old man smirks, his sharp teeth painted red with the blood flowing from his nose after Tim's headbutt. His claw-like nails sink into the flesh of Basira's neck, and the whirlpool of activity in the tunnel comes to a screeching halt. "This one is not quite done yet. Let's see if she bleeds like a monster or like a human."

If one thinks about it objectively, Tim's cockiness wasn't necessarily unjustified. He merely failed to factor in the part where he technically doesn't want to blow up the entirety of London to get rid of two hunters, or turn Daisy and Basira into a pile of ashes.

"That's enough," Daisy growls, loosening her grip around Julia's neck. The woman slashes at her face as soon as she's free, the knife leaving an angry red gash across her cheekbone and nose.

It makes something hot an angry burn at his chest, that even with all this power, he's still useless to stop this.

"How sweet." Julia shoves her off, climbing to her feet with a slight limp in her step. Tim feels a dark pang of pride at the angry red burn on the side of her face. "You're not the monsters we wanted, but it's okay, we don't discriminate. Let's see that throat, old man."

"Basira?" Daisy calls out. She's still on her knees, still watching her own blood drip down to the dirty floor of the tunnels.

"Yes?" Basira asks, then chokes a little when Trevor presses his nails a bit harder.

"Will you find me?" Daisy's starting to shake, and Tim takes a step back even as the Desolation in him beckons him forward, because the sheer amount of sorrow and rage coming from her is intoxicating.

Another wave of loss, of suffering hits him just as hard. Tim darts a glance at her, but there's nothing in Basira's face that betrays the pain simmering inside her.

"Anywhere."

Daisy's form splits open.

It's like watching a flower blossom in a timelapse video, or a moth emerge from its cocoon. The creature that comes out is long-limbed and sharp-fanged, and its fur shimmers with a faint coat of blood as it leaves behind the useless skin of Daisy Tonner. They watch it in stunned silence as it raises to its full height, its hunched back grazing against the roof of the tunnel, a cavernous growl squeezing out from between jaws where the hide is stretched too thin, pierced here and there by sharp yellowed fangs, its eyes like two pinpricks of light at the end of a cavernous tunnel fixed on the hunters before it.

"...Fuck," Julia mutters. Tim is inclined to agree.

Then the thing that was Daisy takes a step towards her, and the room explodes in activity again. Basira is shoved to the side as Trevor rushes to step between them, and it's all Tim can do to throw himself over her, as two and then three beasts slam each other against the walls of the tunnel, raining down dirt and debris that digs into Tim's waxy flesh.

It feels like hours before the howling fades away, before the tearing of flesh under claws and fangs leaves behind a silence so haunting it very nearly drowns the roar of the Desolation inside him.

"G- get off," Basira orders, pushing a hand against his chest. Tim scrambles to his feet and offers a hand that she ignores, her eyes focused on the soggy skins left behind in crumpled lumps by the beasts. "I- shit."

"Eloquent." She's looking down one of the tunnels, the one that reeks of hatred and pain, and Tim knows very well the sort of debate brewing in her mind. "Are you going after them?"

"Are you?" she snaps, whipping around to face him. Her face is carefully blank, and Tim doesn't point out the red rims of her eyes, or the pain emanating from her in waves. It doesn't take a genius to understand she's pinning her own hesitation on him. He doesn't know much about Basira, but he might understand that it's easier for her to handle weak people than to be weak herself.

Is he going after them?

He could probably find them, following the claw marks and the rage. If they make it far enough from anyone that could get caught in the crossfire-

"Why were you down here?" he asks, though he thinks he might know the answer already. Jon is many things, but he wouldn't abandon them so easily.

"Jon was still holding on to you when they found you, you know?" Sasha -no, not her, not anymore- had said, and Tim had believed her immediately, just as he believes it now.

"Martin and- they're missing. We think they're at the center of this- this mess." Basira's voice is almost frail as she continues to look down the corridor the monsters disappeared in.

"Can you find them?"

"Yes." The word comes immediately, mournful and without hesitation.

"Well- let's- let's get to it. Somehow I doubt Daisy needs us that much right now."

-----------------------------------

"You're making a right mess of me," he says. He's standing next to the table, watching the proceedings with something that almost feels like interest. "I thought you had more experience at this."

"I was feeling experimental." She shrugs. Her arms are covered in blood to the elbow, and her chest and face are also splattered red. "I felt like it had to be special."

"Very romantic," he says dryly. "What's going to happen to Gerry?"

"Gerard will be fine." She enunciates the name clearly and firmly. They never did settle that argument, but she pretty much just won, he guesses. "He's got the potential."

"He's two years old."

"He's my son." She saws angrily, until the bone finally breaks. "You brought this on yourself, you know?What were you thinking, pulling your eyes out?"

"I suppose I did. I thought you'd be happy that I was free." He shrugs again, before extending a translucent hand to push a lock of blood-soaked blonde hair behind her ear. It passes right through. "It's nice to see you again."

She pauses on her work, her eyes -he always did love that perfect mix of green and blue- fixed on the carnage dripping down to the kitchen floor.

"You knew how I was," she says finally. "I never hid that from you."

"You didn't."

That's not an apology. It's not an excuse. It's not enough for this man who sees himself dead on a table and asks about his son first, why do they both look so satisfied with it?!

The saw is heavy in his hand, and slippery with the blood that stinks the whole room of iron. Gerry tries to drop it, tries to step back, this is not him, up to his elbows in the blood of the one he loves-

"Gerry?" Jon's voice washes over him like cool water over a burn; Gerry thinks he might cry, when he blinks away the image of his parents and Jon is there, looking down at him in concern. "I'm- you're- how do you feel?"

"Like shit." Gerry lets out a dry cackle that's just this side of hysterical, before the gravity of the situation catches up to him, and he sits up so abruptly Jon has to throw himself back to avoid getting head-butted. "Fuck. Jon, we- Martin-"

"I know, I- Elias told me." Jon bites at his bottom lip. "I'm- it looks like we're completing the card after all."

"...Looks like it," Gerry says. It leaves a bitter aftertaste in his mouth, but there's no other way to go about it. Jon's not going to leave Martin in the Lonely, and Gerry's not going to ask him to. He climbs to his feet with a groan -he definitely bruised something- and Jon follows suit. "I'm- I don't know how well it'll go, Jon. You were able to use me as an anchor in the Dark, but I don't know if you can just- just pull Martin out. The person has to want to come back, usually."

"Let's find out." Jon takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the rift to the Lonely for a moment. He looks over his shoulder at him, and there's an odd intensity to his eyes, not the eerie power of the Archivist, but merely the one befitting a man in love. "Are you ready?"

"I- what?" Gerry blinks a couple times, before his own words come back to him from so long ago, whispered against Jon's lips with more devotion than any prayer he's ever uttered, the threat of an apocalypse looming over their heads and in his heart the firm intention of walking into the Dark for this man. "Oh."

"...I don't mean to force you to-" the little yelp Jon gives when he leans in to kiss him might just be enough to turn him immune to the Lonely, Gerry thinks.

"Let's go get your Martin back, then."

[voiceless-terror]

Unforgettable (The Magnus Archives)

Whumptober 2020 Day Eleven: Crying

Fandom: The Magnus Archives

Characters: Tim Stoker, Jonathan Sims, Sasha James (mentioned), Not!Sasha (mentioned)

CW: Discussion of Character Death

Summary:

A photo is shoved into his hands. It is him and Jon and some woman. They all look quite cozy, but for the life of him he can’t remember what this was from. An outing when he first started? But he always remembered a beautiful woman’s face, and he would definitely remember hers-

Jon finds a photo before he goes to destroy the table. He and Tim try to remember.

Jon is going to destroy that table.

He’s seen the statement with Adelard Dekker, he’s found and heard the tapes of the real Sasha. The Sasha that Melanie described. The Sasha that is not the Sasha who wandered off to the research department earlier that day. He knows there’s no chance of the real one coming back, the statement said as much. She’s dead. But maybe if he can destroy that thing and whatever houses it, he can give her some sort of peace. Give him and Tim and Martin peace. 

And maybe, where ever she is, Sasha will forgive him for being so, so stupid. For forgetting her.

His chair screeches back as he stands up, bumping into the cabinet behind him. He’s going to the nearest hardware store and he’s finding a goddamn weapon- a bat or an axe or anything that looks like it will get the job done. 

I thought it was pronounced “Ka-lee-o-pee?” Her voice was so friendly. So approachable, with its teasing lilt. But no, he and Sasha weren’t friends. They were colleagues, that’s all. He chose her because of her work ethic and no-nonsense attitude. Not because they were friends.

Something skitters at his feet. Jon jumps, his heart hammering as he sees a spider out of the corner of his eye crawl out from under the cabinet. It disturbs a few papers that were hiding underneath, their corners now visible. There’s something to the spiders, he realizes. He feels compelled to pick up those papers and see what they reveal. He follows this impulse.

In his hands are a few wrinkled notes from a previous case, one that he dismissed as fake right off the bat.  Not important. Jon sighs and moves to plop them on his desk when a smaller, thicker peace of paper falls onto his chair.

It is a photo.

There he is, several years younger. It must be from around 2013, when Tim first started at the institute as he’s by his side, smiling widely with a companionable arm slung around Jon’s shoulder. Back when he liked me. Even Jon is smiling in the picture, albeit awkwardly. But there is another in the photo- a tall, dark-skinned woman with long braids and round glasses. She’s got her arm around his other shoulder like they know each other. Jon cannot place her, but he was obviously comfortable enough with her to take this photo. He flips it over to the back to find a date, but instead sees an inscription in an unfamiliar handwriting. 

Jon- congrats on the promotion! Don’t forget your roots! - x Sasha

Sasha. This is- was his Sasha. And it is all at once too much.

His eyes began to water uncontrollably, a sob building in his throat. It was somehow easier to only have her voice, but to see her face and her note and the smile in her eyes and not remember any of it sends an unbearable pain through his chest. She was important to him and he couldn’t give her the dignity of remembering her face, even now.

There are sounds coming from his throat, horrible and wretched but he cannot stop them. He needs to find Tim. He needs him to see her face. He needs to know he’s not the only one who’s forgotten.

--------------------

Tim is waiting on Martin to come back from the library- it’s been a hell of a day and he needs a drink, stat. He’s not good company these days, and Martin continually irritates him with his fussing and mothering both of him and Jon. But at least he’s someone, and Tim can’t be alone right now. It’s not like he could ask Jon or Sasha to come.

He starts to hear noises from his boss’s office, strange and sorrowful. Something long buried in him wants to go in there, make sure Jon’s alright. But the other half of him is too consumed in his rage at this stupid, paranoid little man he once called a friend. So he sits and waits. If Jon needs something he’s going to have to come to him.

And he does.

The door to Jon’s office swings open and he tumbles out, looking more pathetic than usual. And he's...crying? No, that wasn’t the right word for it. The sounds  coming out of his mouth are more akin to a stifled scream. In spite of himself, he feels his heart clench and he gets to his feet.

“Jon,” he starts warily. “What’s going-”

“Sasha!”  Jon’s eyes are wild as he stumbles forward, grabbing onto Tim’s shirt. He’s shaking so hard that Tim’s hands automatically go to his sides to keep him steady. “She’s- she’s wrong, Tim. We forgot Sasha.”

What? He had to be hallucinating or on some sort of drug. Christ, he really is that far gone.

“Jon,” he tries to pry the man’s hands off his shirt in vain. “Jon, go home or go to the doctor, I can’t-”

“Look!”  A photo is shoved into his hands.  Huh?

It is him and Jon and some woman. They all look quite cozy, but for the life of him he can’t remember what this was from. An outing when he first started? But he always remembered a beautiful woman’s face, and he would definitely remember hers-

“It’s Sasha,” Jon cries, giving Tim’s arms a feeble shake. Tim would roll his eyes but a sudden sense of dread is a leaden weight in his stomach. Who is this?

“No, Jon, no it’s not,” he insists, one hand shoving the man away and the other tightly gripping the photo. “I don’t know who the hell this is,” he says, even as his mind screams you know you know-

Jon stumbles against the wall, heaving breaths still not under control. He looks at Tim with wild eyes. “Flip it over, Tim.” He does.

There is a note. The writing is unfamiliar but the hand that wrote it is not. He sees a flash of a smile and a memory, a late night in the bar and a stolen kiss and that hand on his face-

“What the fuck is going on, Jon,” his voice is tremulous and the tears build behind his eyes, both in rage and unexplainable grief. “Who-  who is this?”

“Sasha,”  the one word is spoken like a mumbled prayer and Tim knows Jon’s right. “Come- come listen to the tapes, I have the tapes.” He robotically follows Jon to his office, watching blankly as the man collapses into his chair, still sniffling, and presses play on a tape recorder.

And it's a voice. It's her voice. Not the Sasha now, no, it’s the one he knew and loved and spilled his secrets to. It’s putting the voice to that smiling face in the photo that breaks him. Is he crying? He can’t tell. All he knows is that both Sashas are strangers to him but one is warm and comforting and telling him “I’m unforgettable,” in that sweet, teasing voice. “I’m unforgettable”- and yet her face keeps slipping from his mind even as he stares at it immortalized in print.

Jon is talking- something about a Not!Them, a statement, a table. He can’t comprehend the words.

He interrupts Jon’s rambling. “What are we going to do?” He asks, voice hardening as tears trail down his cheeks. There is a woman who sits next to him day after day who is not what she says she is. There is a woman, cold and distant and professional with a blank smile calling itself Sasha.

“I was going to...destroy the table. I don’t know what it will do, but it has to do something, right?”

“Maybe,” Tim agrees, though the sentiment is hollow. What can they do now, anyway? Sasha’s gone and there’s no place for him to lay flowers, no memorial with her name. All he has is a crumpled photo in his hands and the vague memory of Sasha’s voice as she wrote the words inscribed- I’m still pissed, but it’s not his fault. I think it would really help him if he knew we were in his corner-

He stares at the man in front of him. The man who most assuredly hasn’t been in his corner when Tim needed him most. The man he followed down from research in the hopes of finding something about the thing that took his brother. The man who damned them all to their fate, however unknowingly.

“Tim,” Jon says, his eyes desperate and bright. “Tim, we were friends.” He has a feeling Jon isn’t just referring to Sasha, not with the way those eyes bore into his own.

“Yeah,” he replied, returning the stare. His memories are scattered- nights out with Jon that had a third figure in the shadows, a woman he can’t remember but aches for. Not just a colleague but someone he loved, once. “We were.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26950456

[ollieofthebeholder]

and some say love is holding on (and some say letting go): a The Magnus Archives fanfic

Also on AO3. Takes place immediately after Episode 159: The Last. Title and song lyrics from Perhaps Love by John Denver, which is going to end up being the lynchpin of an eventual JonMartin playlist.

Perhaps love is like a resting place, a shelter from the storm It exists to bring you comfort, it is there to keep you warm And in those times of trouble when you are most alone The memory of love will bring you home...

~*~*~*~*~*~

The exhaustion hits the second they cross the threshold from the Lonely’s domain to the real world. Jon is shaking from head to toe, worse than the last time he went more than a couple days without a statement, and the confidence and energy with which he brought them out seems to leave him in a rush, like water swirling down a bathtub drain. He could easily sleep for a week.

At his side, Martin’s knees buckle, and he’s trembling so hard it seems like he might actually fly to pieces. Jon tries to support him, but he’s a head shorter and a good deal skinnier than Martin and it would be an effort under the best of circumstances, which these are decidedly not. He intends to guide Martin gently to sit down on the floor, but it ends up being an ungraceful, barely-controlled mutual collapse.

“Let’s just rest here for a minute,” Jon murmurs, trying to catch his breath.

“Do we really have time?” Martin asks, also gasping for air like they had to work a lot harder to get out than they did.

They probably don’t, actually. Trevor and Julia are up there somewhere, cutting a swath through the Institute’s staff, or trying to anyway. The thing that took Sasha’s place is on the loose, too, abandoning all pretense at humanity. Daisy has given herself back over to the Hunt—Jon knew that was what she was going to do without even having to use his abilities—and even if she did it to save them, to save him, she did it knowing she won’t be coming back from it this time. God, if there is an actual God, only knows where Elias—Jonah—has gone or what he’s up to, what he’s plotting now. There may not be a new entity coming into being or a ritual they need to interrupt, but there are still a lot of very dangerous things out there and most of them very much want to kill them. Or at least Jon.

But they’re both exhausted. Jon’s never used his abilities against another avatar before, or such a reluctant subject, and it’s taken a lot out of him. And Martin—God, Martin. Martin stood up to Peter Lukas, to the avatar of the Lonely. He fought his way back from the brink of being claimed. There’s no way he’s not completely worn out. Whatever might be happening on the surface, Martin needs to rest and Jon is going to give him that.

“I think we’ll have to make it,” he says. “The time, I mean. Whatever’s going on...we won’t be of much use like this.”

Martin gives a soft hum, maybe of agreement, maybe just of acknowledgment. They sit there for a few moments, leaning against one of the smooth stone walls, arms still wrapped around each other’s shoulders. There is no sound in that vast, empty room but their harsh and ragged breathing. Jon concentrates on Martin’s heartbeat, close to his ear because of his height and the way they’re sitting. The steady, even thudding comforts him, reminding him that Martin is alive and safe and there. He’s not okay. Neither of them are by a long shot. They haven’t been for a long time, probably since they started working at the Institute. But they’re together and they’re alive, and that goes a pretty long way.

After a bit, Martin says quietly, “The...thing. Not-Sasha. Peter set it loose, Jon.”

“I know,” Jon admits. “It came after us. After me. Trouble is, Trevor and Julia are up there too.”

“The...? I thought they were in America!”

“They were. Followed me here. Finally figured out I’d taken Gerry’s page from that damned book.” Jon sighs heavily. “Daisy fought them off once before, but they came back. They were cutting their way through the Institute. We—Basira and Daisy and I—we were going to try and fight them off, but then the thing that took Sasha’s place came out. Decided Trevor and Julia were a better target than me, I guess? Basira told me to go and I don’t have any real idea what happened after that.”

Martin gives a short laugh that somehow sounds amused, tired, and slightly bitter all at once. “There’s something I never thought I’d hear you say again.”

“Yes, well, I do have to concentrate most of the time to read minds,” Jon says, trying and failing to smile. “And I had something rather more important worrying me.” He pauses, then adds, “What...happened? I know this is the Panopticon. I know Elias is Jonah Magnus body-hopping, and I know Peter Lukas took you into the Lonely, but...what happened?”

“A lot,” Martin says. “Or maybe it just...felt like a lot. I don’t know if I can...” He looks around, then gestures with his free hand off to Jon’s left. “Should be on there.”

Jon turns to look and sees one of those damned tape recorders. Honestly, he should be used to them turning up everywhere these days, and he mostly is, but he’s got to admit he’s surprised to see it here. “Did Jonah bring that?”

“No, I did. Or, well, it came with me.” Martin shrugs. “Didn’t turn it on consciously or anything, so I’ve no idea what’s on there, but I can guess. Tends to turn itself on when something important is going to happen.”

Jon considers the recorder for a minute. It sits innocuously enough, and it doesn’t seem to be running at the moment, so whatever is on its tape is a past recording. It’s just out of reach from his present position, but there is a black nylon strap trailing off one side. He stretches his leg out as far as he can go and kicks ineffectually for a bit before he finally manages to land his heel in the center of the loop. Slowly and carefully, he drags the recorder towards him until it’s close enough that he can reach out and snag it with his free hand.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier just to get up and grab it?” Martin says. “Or wait until you were up to moving that far?”

Jon doesn’t even give the idea of bantering back a second’s thought, nor does he consider putting a gloss on his reasoning. If anyone deserves the immediate, instinctive, and above all honest answer, it’s Martin. “I’d have had to let go of you to do that,” he says as he hits the rewind button. “And I’m honestly afraid if I do, something else will try to take you away again.”

For a moment, there’s no sound in the room but the whir of the tape spooling backwards. Finally, Martin says, “I know, you put a lot of effort into dragging me out of there once already. Shame for that to go to waste.”

A knot forms in Jon’s chest. God, what the hell did Peter Lukas do to Martin? Or...has he always thought like this? “You honestly think I’d have done that for anyone else?”

There’s another beat before Martin answers. “I mean...yes?”

“Martin...”

“You already did it with Daisy—”

Jon is shaking his head before Martin gets all the words out. “That wasn’t the same thing at all.”

“She was trapped in the domain of another...power. You went plunging in, found her, and brought her back out again, alive and well. Seems like the same thing to me.”

“It’s not,” Jon insists, looking up into Martin’s face. “For one thing, the reasoning was completely different. I went to find Daisy because I felt guilty.”

“Guilty,” Martin says flatly.

“I’m the one that brought her into that mess,” Jon says softly. “I’m the one that didn’t prepare properly for what would happen in the Unknowing and got her mixed up in it. And I just...we lost Tim. I lost Tim. I couldn’t bring him home. I could bring Daisy home safe. I went after her because I thought it would help my guilt if I could see her alive, and with Basira again.”

“Did it?”

“Sort of? I still...” The tape pops as it hits the beginning of the reel, but Jon ignores it for the moment. “I still feel guilty about Tim. I think I always will. Not just him getting killed, but...all of it. I couldn’t fix that, and no matter what I do for anyone else, I never can make it up to him. I’m not sure if I could have even if he’d survived. I don’t know if he would have let me. But at least Daisy was out of there, and I knew I’d done what I could for her. And she’s been doing all right, more or less. Or was, until today. Even if she did join the Institute to get away from the nightmares. Basira’s still inclined to beat up on me a bit, but Daisy doesn’t seem like she blames me, which helps.”

Martin sighs and slumps back against the wall. “Think that tape’s ready.”

Jon knows a dodge when he hears one, but he decides not to call Martin out on it just yet. Instead, he presses the play button and lets the tape go.

It is the one Martin had with him, starting with him and Peter Lukas first coming into the tunnels. Jon’s stomach lurches every time Lukas talks, the buttery-smooth words eroding Martin’s self-confidence and serving to isolate him further. It’s no wonder Martin tried to make Jon leave him in the Lonely, if this is how the bastard talked to him every time they interacted. His heart twists violently at Martin’s voice—the way it shifts from nervousness to trepidation to fear to outright panic—and then Elias’s voice comes through and his heart nearly stops dead. He listens to both of them taunting, toying with Martin, both of them for some reason urging him to kill Elias—to kill Jonah...

And then Martin refuses.

Jon’s lips part, but no sound comes out. He stares speechlessly at the tape recorder as Martin’s voice spills out, telling Lukas what he was thinking, why he did what he did, how he figured out that Lukas was lying to him for some reason. He stands up to Peter Lukas, the avatar of the Lonely, to his face, and refuses to kill a man who richly deserves it, a man nobody would blame him for destroying. Jon can picture him, shoulders squared and head held high, a defiant glint in his eye as he stares down not one, but two fears trying to claim him, and remains, solely and unequivocally, Martin.

He’s never been prouder.

His heart stutters again when Martin starts to ask a question and then vanishes. There’s a loud squeal of static, and Jon can almost hear voices in it, but it’s too much effort to try and force knowledge out of a magnetic tape right then, so he leaves it. And then he hears his own voice, piecing together the little bit he was able to glean from the surface of Elias’s—Jonah’s—mind, replaying the conversation leading up to him opening his mind, finding the path to the Lonely, and going off after Martin.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Martin says softly when the tape ends with a final-sounding click.

“What, you wanted me to leave you there?”

“Yes! I mean...I can’t say I’d like being there, but...damn it, Jon, the whole point was to keep you safe,” Martin blurts out. “Weren’t you listening? Did you not listen to a single thing I said? All right, I know I didn’t give you all the information, but I couldn’t, not and risk Peter starting to toy with you. As long as he thought I was really staying away from you, you were safe, from him at least. And I thought with Elias locked up, you’d be safe from him, and I knew—Elias told me you listened to all the tapes, so I knew once the recorders started popping up again you’d hear them eventually. I tried everything I could to keep you safe, and you just—walked into the Lonely like it was nothing!”

“No!” Jon says forcefully, and he grips Martin’s shirt tightly, forcing his attention onto him, forcing him to listen. “It wasn’t nothing, Martin, and you know that. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Ever. I had no idea if I was going to be able to get out again, if we were going to be able to get out again. When I went into that coffin to find Daisy, I left a rib as an anchor by the door, so I’d know where the way out was. I had a plan, as...ill-advised as it was, but I did have one. I didn’t have that when I came after you, and I knew there was a chance this was a one-way trip. But it would have been worth it, do you hear me? I don’t care if I’d been trapped in there forever, because if I hadn’t gone in there, you would have been alone, and I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t, Martin.” He closes his eyes, trying to stop the sudden rush of tears he can feel threatening to spill over. “All this time...I trusted you. I did. I knew you knew what you were doing. I trusted you to have a plan and to be all right. And you did, and I am so very, very proud of you and what you did. But you...I didn’t just need you to know what you were doing. I needed you to be all right. And when I found that tape you left me, and I realized where you’d gone, I...I panicked. A lot. Nobody would help me, and I was so damn desperate I tried to force Helen to take me to the center, take me to you. I was never afraid for myself, Martin. Not throughout any of this. I was afraid for you. I needed you to be safe, and I was so afraid that I’d be too late.” He draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “I thought I was.”

He looks up and sees Martin staring at him, his eyes wide and wet behind his glasses and lips parted slightly. His expression is hard to read—Jon’s leaning towards disbelief, but there might be a little bit of fear there, too. He could probably know if he wanted to, but in the first place, he is very tired and that’s a lot of effort, and in the second place...well. He’s never pried into Martin’s mind, even accidentally, except once to know where he was because he needed to see him so badly. He’s not about to start now—not here, not in the aftermath of what’s probably the most terrifying thing they’ve faced down since Jon took over as Archivist, which is saying rather a lot.

“Martin,” he whispers again, and it’s halfway a prayer and halfway a question.

Martin shakes his head slightly, although it doesn’t seem like it’s in answer to the unspoken question. “Don’t do this, Jon,” he says, his voice breaking. “Don’t...don’t just tell me what I want to hear. I know you know...I know you listen to the tapes. I know you know how I—don’t play with me. Please.”

“I’m not playing, Martin,” Jon says, his heart breaking all over again. “I meant what I said. Just now. In the Lonely. What I’ve been...I should have told you so long ago. I need you, very much. I care about you. I—” His voice hitches. He hasn’t said it to anyone, in so many years—maybe not ever—has he ever said it? Has he ever meant it?

Well, he means it now. With his entire heart, with whatever he has that still passes for a soul, with everything that is within him. All the twisting paths his mind has taken these last two years, since the first time he really looked at Martin as he sat opposite the tape recorder and insisted on giving his statement, coalesce and unfold into a single, beautiful truth. But it sticks in his damned throat, and he can’t seem to manage to actually just say it.

“He was wrong, you know,” Martin says softly. “Elias. Jonah. Whatever. He was wrong.”

“About what?” Jon asks, a little taken aback by the twist of the conversation. Has he misjudged? He was so sure...

“What he said when he caught me burning those statements. My distraction. So Melanie could get those tapes.” Martin blinks hard. “You listened to that tape, right? He said...that’s when he told me you listened to all of them.” Again that short laugh layered with emotion. “Like that was going to change anything I said.”

“I, ah—no, not that one,” Jon confesses. “Not yet. I...Melanie told me your plan worked. I was...more focused on the statements. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to relive that day. I almost did, the other day, after I told you about...how to quit, but I—I just haven’t yet. What did he tell you?”

Martin swallows hard. “He said...he assumed you’d told me to burn the statements while he was gone. Said I’d do anything you told me to. It’s not that. I’d do anything for you. You know that, right?”

Jon nods. He’s known that for a while now, ever since Martin was “out sick” for two weeks and then came tumbling back into the Archives with the news that Jane Prentiss had been holding him hostage in his own apartment, without his phone. At first he thought, if only to himself, that Martin’s insistence on investigating so deeply was out of some inane need to prove himself, but somewhere around midnight, lying awake in his bed and finding himself wondering if the other man was comfortable and—most importantly—safe in the Archives after all, he came to the sudden realization that it wasn’t that at all. Martin knew, even before Jon did, how badly he needed to know all the details of the statements, and he went looking in the hopes that it would make Jon happy. It hasn’t escaped Jon’s attention that Martin is the only one on the team who’s recorded more than one or two statements, either. He shouldered the burden without question or complaint, for no other reason than to help Jon out. Martin has become the only person in the Institute Jon trusts completely and without question, because if anyone has earned that trust, it’s Martin.

“I just...I figured you knew how I felt,” Martin mumbles. “Even aside from the tapes. I know you just...know things sometimes, too. And, let’s face it, I’m not exactly subtle. Tim—” His voice hitches slightly on their friend’s name. “Tim used to love taking the piss out of me for it. So even if you weren’t psychic—”

“I’m not—all right, fine, I’m psychic. But I’ve never read your mind,” Jon tells him. “I—I try very hard not to invade people’s privacy, especially the people I care about, even accidentally. And I’m—I can be somewhat oblivious at times,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh. “I suppose...I suppose I didn’t see it because I thought there was no possible way I could be so lucky.”

“Lucky?” Martin repeats, sounding faintly surprised.

Jon reaches up with one trembling hand and cups Martin’s cheek. “To have you feel the same way about me that I do about you.”

He tries not to voice his thoughts aloud, tries not to think about what Martin said the first time, when they were still trapped in Peter Lukas’s hellscape. I loved you. Not present tense, past tense. Loved. Jon knows, with a certainty that has nothing to do with the Eye, that he’s not going to stop feeling this way any time in his life. And if it’s now as one-sided as he always assumed it was, well, he’s lived with it this long. It won’t bother him too much.

Both the Eye and his own, actual brain chime in to inform him that he’s only kidding himself. It will bother him; it will hurt deeply to know that he could have had a chance at happiness, at maybe a little bit of peace, and he missed out on it forever because he couldn’t get his head out of his arse long enough to tell Martin why he agreed so readily to leave him behind before traipsing off to blow up a circus. He hopes like hell that Martin’s words were just an effect of the Lonely, that the world they were in warped his mind and made all his thoughts and feelings in the real world seem distant and unreal, because as terrifying as that thought is, the idea that Martin might have really stopped loving him is worse.

Of course, he thinks bitterly, see previous statement regarding there being no possible way I could be so lucky.

There seems to be an eternity in the heartbeat between Jon’s statement and the small, broken sound that escapes Martin’s lips. He turns his head slightly and brushes his lips against the palm of Jon’s hand, just for a second, then leans into the hand and wraps his arms around Jon, tight and secure. Jon can’t help the gasp of relief as he returns the embrace as fiercely as he dares, silently offering up a prayer of thanks to whatever higher power has decided to give him a damned break for once in his life.

“I—” Jon tries again, but the words stick in his throat just as hard. He wants to say it. Needs to say it. Needs Martin to understand. But they just won’t come.

“I know,” Martin whispers, his voice thick with tears. “Me, too, Jon.”

There are no words, in any language, to describe the emotions that flood over Jon with that. Or maybe there are, but Jon can’t think of them. All he can think is thank you thank you thank you as he presses his face into the space between Martin’s neck and shoulder. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s never deserved Martin, his loyalty and quiet devotion, everything that’s served as a touchstone, a way to ground Jon to reality, the one thing keeping him from losing himself completely. It’s been hard, keeping his distance from Martin since he woke up from his coma, but he realizes it hasn’t exactly been a picnic for Martin either. Jon at least had Basira and Melanie and Daisy, even if at least one of them wanted to kill him at any given time, and even though none of them are Martin, none of them could ever understand him the way Martin has from the very start. Martin had no one, and even if it was his choice—or he was pretending it was, anyway—it had to hurt. All those months in close, near-constant proximity to Peter Lukas, the avatar of Isolation, would destroy a weaker man than Martin Blackwood. Jon knows, with utter certainty, that he would never have been able to survive that. He would have given in. He would have broken. But Martin stayed the course and survived.

And then Jon almost lost him anyway.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, the sound muffled by Martin’s shirt. “I’m so sorry. If I’d...”

“Don’t,” Martin chokes. “’S not your fault. You didn’t—this isn’t on you.” He lets out another short laugh, but there’s no bitterness in it this time and it makes Jon’s heart lighten a little. “You saved me.”

“You saved me first. We’re even.” Jon tries to laugh. “Actually, I think you’re still well ahead.”

Martin huffs, but doesn’t argue. Jon senses it’s less because he agrees and more because he doesn’t have the energy. “Don’t suppose you know the way out of this maze.”

“That...no. I don’t,” Jon admits. He shifts back enough to look up at Martin’s face, but he doesn’t let go. He doesn’t know if he can right now. Maybe not ever. “I only got down here because—Jonah called me. I’d like to think I’d have been able to find you, but these paths are...”

“Distorted?”

“Yes, that’s probably the best word for them. I doubt I could have retraced your steps and made it.”

Martin’s lips twitch in a smile. “Maybe it’s like leaving the Lonely. Maybe you just have to pick a direction and keep moving that way.”

“No, that wasn’t it,” Jon corrects him. “It wasn’t that I knew where the exit was, either. I didn’t...not exactly.”

“You said you—” Martin stops. “No. You said you knew the way out. That’s it, isn’t it? The only way out of the Lonely was together.”

Jon brushes his knuckles against Martin’s cheek fondly. “I knew you were still part of the Archives.”

Martin blushes. He takes Jon’s hand in his and kisses the back of it gently. “Well, then, maybe we can find our way out of here together, too. If you’re ready.”

Jon can feel his own cheeks heating up. He nods. “I think I’m about as ready as I’ll be able to be down here. You?”

“Same. Feel like I could sleep for a week, though.”

It’s on the tip of Jon’s tongue to suggest they collapse in the back room of the Archives, where Martin stayed when they were worried about Jane Prentiss, but he holds off. First of all, he suspects neither one of them wants to relive those days, especially as Prentiss was closer than they’d suspected. Even now, Jon’s heart lurches and stutters when he remembers those worms working their way through the walls, how close they came to getting to Martin when he was alone and vulnerable, and he doubts Martin has forgotten that either. Second, and more importantly, Jon is fairly certain the Institute is going to be crawling with police, between the thing that isn’t Sasha getting loose and Travis and Julia outright murdering people. The Archives are almost certainly a crime scene, and there’s no way they’ll be able to stay there, even if they want to.

“We might be able to get some sleep down here first,” he says instead.

“Not sure how much sleep I’d actually be able to get with...” Martin trails off, glancing over to where Jonah Magnus’s body lies. “And what if he comes back?”

“Both excellent points. Upwards, then. And let’s hope there’s nothing worse waiting for us than Basira.”

They manage to get to their feet. Jon isn’t sure who assists whom, but they struggle up together. Before they start to move, though, Jon tugs Martin around and hugs him again. He’s not sure he’s quite ready to head through the tunnels, through the Spiral’s domain, and up to the undoubted chaos awaiting them in the Institute. He just wants another moment of quiet. And more than that...he just needs to reassure himself, again, that Martin is here, solidly present and warm and safe, or at least as safe as they can be in the world they inhabit.

Martin hugs him back, just as tightly. Jon can feel the same emotions roiling through him as he does, relief and love and the lingering remnants of fear. He tries to shut them out, tries to do Martin the courtesy of not prying into his brain, until he realizes that it’s not his abilities as the Archivist, it’s simply that Martin’s feeling those emotions so strongly that anyone who knew him could pick up on them. It may also have to do with the fact that he’s shaking slightly.

“Has anyone touched you since you...came back?” Martin asks in his ear. He sounds a little sad.

It takes Jon a moment to realize what Martin means. “I did get a hug from Melanie right before she...resigned. Other than that, nothing very pleasant.” He looks up at Martin, whose eyes radiate so much sympathy it almost hurts. “You?”

“That’s on me. And I don’t...you need that, Jon. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. I could have...asked someone.” It’s ridiculous, and Jon knows it, and he knows Martin knows it. Basira is prickly and stoic and very much not the touchy-feely type, and Melanie was angry with him for so long, partly because of the bullet in her leg and partly because Jon was a convenient target for her feeling of being trapped. And while he and Daisy have come to an accord, she’s got her own traumas and neuroses to deal with and Jon’s never been sure where the line between his needs and hers might lie. Once upon a time he might have been able to count on Georgie for at least a few friendly touches, but, well, that bridge was well and truly burnt. But he won’t let Martin blame himself for this. “Let’s just agree that we both need to agree to stop ignoring our needs in favor of protecting the people around us and practice being a little kinder to ourselves, hmm?”

Martin’s lips twitch in a smile. “I promise to ask next time before I assume I know what the best thing to do to protect you is.”

Warmth flows through Jon, and he returns the smile. “And I promise to do the same.”

Martin bends over and presses his forehead against Jon’s. Jon closes his eyes, feeling calm soak through him. It’s probably a ridiculous thing to feel, as the likelihood that things are going to be all right even for a little while is slim to none, but he’ll take it while he can.

Whatever is coming, Jon is sure it’s nothing they can’t face together.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Perhaps love is like the ocean, full of conflict, full of pain Like a fire when it's cold outside or thunder when it rains If I should live forever and all my dreams come true My memories of love will be of you...

[haberdashing]

Watch What Happens

One possible version of the inevitable Panopticon showdown.

on AO3

The stone staircases were every bit as steep as Jon remembered them being in the tunnels, but now instead of leading down they led up, up, up to the Panopticon, up to the tower visible everywhere in the world now, up to the moment that he and Martin had been waiting for for a long, long time.

The staircase was too narrow for both him and Martin to stand on at the same time, but they held hands as they ascended together, Jon leading the way. Part of it was protection in case one of them slipped, literally or metaphorically; part of it was just clinging to what comfort they could while that was still an option.

Jon didn’t know what awaited him in the Panopticon, exactly, but he knew that it would change things, one way or another.

As Jon took the final step up, the first thing he noticed was the view. Just as all the world could see the Panopticon now, the Panopticon could see all the world in turn. All the horrors he had unleashed, all the suffering playing out because of his actions, it was all within Jon’s view at once now, the sights of a world transformed almost beyond recognition.

Jon only wished that how he felt about the sight of it all was simply horrified. There was more to it, though, whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted it or not, and the gasp he let out was not entirely displeased.

The second thing Jon noticed was Jonah Magnus in Elias Bouchard’s body--the man he had called Elias for years, not knowing he was just using the name of one of his victims--staring right at him, bright eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“Hello, my Archive.”

That, at least, Jon didn’t have to second-guess his feelings about. That made his skin crawl, and a quick look at Martin as they untangled their hands confirmed that Martin disapproved every bit as much as Jon did.

He wasn’t wrong, though. Damn the man, but he wasn’t wrong. All that talk about how Jon was more Archive than Archivist, especially under Jonah’s supervision, being guided to play his part in the spectacle Jonah Magnus had been planning for almost exactly two hundred years now... he had a point, but that didn’t mean Jon had to like it.

“Hello, Jonah.” Jon really hoped that every bit of his hatred shone through as he spat out those two words.

Jonah raised one eyebrow. “First-name basis, is it?”

Jon felt vaguely nauseous. He had barely remembered that that was a feeling he could have. He hadn’t felt that way since before the change, perhaps since before anything that really mattered.

“I imagine you didn’t come here for small talk, so let’s cut to the chase. You’re obviously planning to kill me-”

“Figured that much out already, did you?” God, Jon loved Martin.

Jonah didn’t so much as blink at Martin’s comment, continuing as if he hadn’t been interrupted in the first place. “But there are two reasons that doing so won’t work out like you intended, and I do think you had better hear them out before you make a grave mistake.”

Jonah held up two fingers when he said the word “two,” in a gesture almost like a peace sign, and Jon seriously considered returning the gesture, but with his palm facing towards him instead of out. Would it be rude? Yes. Did he really give a damn at this point? Not really.

Still, though, Jon decided against it, instead saving his snark for rolling his eyes as he said, with every bit of hatred and sarcasm he could muster, “Fine. Enlighten us, then.”

“First.” Two fingers turned to one, held up as if to command attention, as if he were a schoolteacher in front of a class of unruly pupils, as if Jon and Martin’s eyes weren’t already glaring straight at him. “If you were planning on pulling the same stunt you’ve used on other avatars on your way here, you should know it won’t be that easy. I am every bit as connected to the Eye as you are, Jon. Turning its power on me won’t obliterate me as it has so many others now. If anything, it might just make me stronger.”

Jon considered this for a moment. Jonah could be bluffing, could be trying to save himself at the last minute, but it did make a sort of sense that the Eye couldn’t be used to take down one of its own avatars.

“That’s not the only way we can get rid of you.”

“No, I suppose not, but it would make things easier for you, wouldn’t it? You’ve grown so accustomed to using the Eye’s power rather than your own... but insisting on going that route here would just lead you right into the second problem.”

Jon gently massaged his temple, careful not to impede his vision too much in the process. “And what might that be?”

Jonah steepled his hands and shot Jon a wry grin. “I think it’d be easier to show than tell in this particular instance.”

Before Jon could ask what Jonah meant by that, Jonah’s hands unsteepled, the smug grin fell off his face, and seemingly out of nowhere, he began running in the direction of the nearest staircase. His steps were neither graceful nor especially fast, though, and it wasn’t hard for Jon to grab his arm as he ran past, yanking him out of his run and pinning him against a stone wall within the Panopticon.

“What the hell is-”

Jonah’s eyes were wide and frightened-looking, a look Jon couldn’t remember ever seeing on his boss’ face before, and his eyes welled up with tears that were on the verge of falling any second now.

Something was definitely wrong here, and the shaky sound of Jonah’s voice interrupting his only confirmed as much.

“P-please don’t hurt me. I didn’t- didn’t want this, any of this, but I couldn’t stop him-”

His eyes were also hazel, now, and in all the years working with him, Jon had never seen Jonah with hazel eyes...

But this wasn’t Jonah, was it?

“So you are...” It wasn’t a question, not exactly. Jon wasn’t sure if his compulsion would even work, but he didn’t want it to now, didn’t want to force the truth out of someone who was already near tears.

“E-Elias Bouchard. The- the real one. From before he took over. I’ve been just-” He slumped his shoulders a little. “Just watching for all these years. This is the first time I’ve been able to do a damn thing in decades.”

“I see.” Jon heard Martin snort softly at that. “But how is that a reason...?”

Jon saw it, this time, saw Elias’ eyes change from that strange hazel color to a hue much more familiar, and he knew what it meant. Jon released his grip on Jonah Magnus and took a step back.

“I thought that much would be obvious, but apparently I have to spell things out for your benefit once again.”

Jon clenched his teeth, could feel them grinding against each other, though that was probably still better than spitting out any of the responses that came to mind.

“If you kill me, Jon, then you’re killing him, too. He’s still in this body, even now, watching everything that happens. Feeling everything that happens. Are you really going to kill Elias Bouchard just to get back at me?”

Jon let out a slight gasp, though he hadn’t meant to.

Elias- no, Jonah took a step closer, leaning slightly over Jon. “You could do it, if you wanted to. I could even turn over the body again, let you use your precious Eye powers to obliterate it, give you that revenge you’ve been seeking for so long. But you’d be killing an innocent man in the process. I know you’ve thought long and hard about how much suffering, how much death, has come about because of your actions. Are you prepared to add Elias Bouchard’s name to the list?”

Jon looked away from Jonah, was greeted by the sight of terror upon terror playing out in the world beyond the Panopticon, looked back at Jonah with a soft sigh of resignation.

Martin called out Jon’s name, but it felt like it was from far away. Jon barely heard it, didn’t bother seeking out the source, his mind too preoccupied with the dilemma in front of him.

“Or you could just leave. Leave the Panopticon the way you came, and find a new quest to pursue. The old one was doomed to failure, anyway; killing me won’t undo what we’ve created together. I’m sure you could find plenty of other ways to occupy your time out there. But I won’t stop you from killing me, either, from proving the truth behind my words too late. That’s entirely up to you. Make your choice, Jon.”

Jon’s hands were shaking slightly, and his mouth suddenly went dry as he tried to put half-formed thoughts into words. “I...”

“What about this?”

This time, Jon turned to find the source of Martin’s voice, seeing out of the corner of his eye that Jonah was doing the same. He’d almost forgotten that Martin was there with him, and felt embarrassed that he could ever have forgotten such a thing, could ever have forgotten the presence of someone as important as Martin.

Jon had also forgotten that within the Panopticon lay Jonah Magnus’ original body, but Martin evidently hadn’t forgotten, as he was standing right next to it. And, as Jon looked closer, he saw that Martin was holding one of the larger knives they had packed just above Jonah Magnus’ chest.

Then Martin plunged the knife into Jonah Magnus’ heart, and Jon only just had time to notice that the liquid that flowed out of Jonah Magnus’ body didn’t look quite like blood should before the pain set in.

Jon felt like he was being burned alive. Jon felt like he was being torn apart, limb by limb, cell by cell. Jon felt like hundreds of needles were being jammed into every millimeter of his body. Jon felt a thousand pains rolled into one, torment upon torment and agony upon agony, the lot of them blending together into some unholy whole much worse than the sum of its parts.

Jon’s vision, always so clear, began to fade and blur, and he welcomed the darkness as it embraced him, hoping that it would grant him some modicum of relief.

The darkness lingered as he heard the voice, distant and muddled, as if from underwater. It was Martin’s voice, that much he could tell, but he couldn’t make out any individual words, let alone the gist of the speech.

Then a slight sting, and the world returned, blurry but definitely there, and Martin’s words became clearer.

“-up, Jon, please, come back-”

Jon groaned--more out of grogginess than anything else, as the anguish he had expected to come rushing back was still gone, without any discomfort left in its wake--and Martin’s rapid-fire speech paused for a moment.

“Jon?”

The blurriness resolved itself into clear vision once more, and Jon realized only belatedly that his eyesight had only appeared so blurry because Martin had been shaking him the whole time. Martin’s face hovered above him, a million different emotions fighting for control over his expression, as he knelt on the stone floor of the Panopticon.

Jon opened his mouth without planning his words in advance, figuring that reassuring Martin that he was awake again was more important than the details, and surprised himself a bit by coming up with, “For better or for worse, yes.”

Martin let out a soft, shaky laugh, and Jon felt something wet fall onto his cheek. “I- I thought... you weren’t waking up...”

“How long was I out?”

“I don’t know, Jon, it’s not like could check my bloody wristwatch... a while? Longer than I would like.” Martin paused for a moment before adding, “A lot longer than I was, I think.”

“You felt it too?”

“A bit.” Martin scratched the back of his head nervously. “But I knew it was coming, you just- just collapsed on the floor, I thought maybe you’d hit your head, and stone’s not exactly the most forgiving surface for that sort of thing...”

Jon let out a soft, bitter laugh. “It’ll take a lot more than that to kill me.”

“Don’t even joke about that.” Martin stood up, extending one arm towards Jon. “Need a hand?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Jon was pretty sure Martin pulled him up more than he actually pulled himself up, but what mattered was that he was up, was standing once more, and the pain that had caused him to collapse and black out was still gone. Also, Martin’s hand had been warm and soft, and even though he no longer needed the lift Jon’s hand was still brushing against Martin’s, the two just barely making contact still.

Jon noticed, idly, that Martin’s clothes were covered in specks of the not-quite-blood that had flowed out of Jonah Magnus’ body, but while it was unpleasant-looking and probably uncomfortable, it wasn’t the worst thing that had gotten on either of their clothes during their journey.

Jon’s train of thought was abruptly disrupted when his eyes fell upon a human figure still collapsed on the stone floor around them; as he approached, Martin following close behind, he heard the man swearing a blue streak, the profanities he let loose both inventive and especially obscene.

“Hello?” Jon asked.

“Are you alright?” Martin added.

The man sat up, and only then did he recognize the face of Jonah- no, of Elias Bouchard staring up at him.

“‘ve been worse... been a hell of a lot better, too, though...”

Elias sat up with a groan before locking eyes with Jon.

“Are you gonna kill me now, too?”

Jon looked over at Martin, who shook his head slightly, eyes wide.

“Depends. Who are you, exactly?” Jon was pretty sure he knew the answer already, but, well, better safe than sorry.

He didn’t hesitate to answer. “Elias Bouchard, the original, like I said before. Son of Julian and Nancy Bouchard, though Mum’s been dead since I was a kid. Only joined the Magnus Institute because I wanted a cushy office job and not many places would take someone with my shit grades. Didn’t even believe in the supernatural until, well-” Elias made a vague, wobbly hand gesture. “-all of this happened.”

Jon let out a soft breath. “No, I don’t think either of us are going to kill you now, Elias.”

“Well, uh, thank you, then.”

“What, for not killing you?” Martin asked.

Elias laughed, and it sounded very little like the sort of laughs Jon had heard come out of Elias’ mouth before, self-satisfied and pompous; it sounded much more like a genuine, normal laugh, full of humor and free of self-consciousness, even despite the current situation.

“Sort of, yeah, but also for, well, for killing him.” Elias pointed his thumb back at the body of Jonah Magnus. “I honestly thought I’d be stuck like that for the rest of my life, just watching him walk around in my body, so... glad I was wrong on that one. And thanks for fixing it for me, I suppose.”

Jon thought about that for a long moment. For a while now he’d bemoaned that it seemed like he couldn’t save anyone in this new world, couldn’t help anyone, could only cause more harm, and now...

Well, he couldn’t really take credit here. Jonah Magnus’ death was all Martin’s doing, not his own. But still, it was... something. A modicum of progress, perhaps. A small sign of hope.

“Maybe you can help us in return.” Jon looked pointedly out at the unchanged hellscape that surrounded them. “Obviously things haven’t gone back to normal with his death. Do you know why?”

“Well, he was right that killing him wasn’t going to magically fix everything, he wasn’t quite enough of a dipshit to set things up like that-”

Martin let out a soft laugh, and Elias’ face turned pink.

“Sorry, is the swearing a problem? I can stop if you’d like-”

“No, no, it’s just... never thought I’d hear it from you.”

Elias shot Martin a wide, albeit shaky, grin. “Dipshit was actually probably my favorite word back when I was a teenager. Let it slip at a dinner party once and my dad was furious, so of course I made a point to use it as often as possible from that point on. Drove my teachers mad, too.”

Martin laughed a bit more, and Jon struggled to hold back laughter of his own as he planned his next words.

“But if you saw everything he saw, you have to know something... do you know how to put things back the way they were?”

Martin pressed his arm against Jon’s and said Jon’s name softly, but if it was meant as a warning, it was one Jon wasn’t willing to heed. Jon didn’t care about politeness right now; he wanted answers.

“Not exactly? I mean, he was always just planning to make it happen, seemed to think it’d be easy sailing from there on out... and I mean, he wanted all of this, it’s not like he was making plans for how to back out of it all...”

Jon let out a soft sigh.

“...but I do have a few, er, theories? Given what I managed to pick up along the way...”

Jon forced his face into a weak smile. “We’d love to hear them.”

[oakleaf--bearer]

juicy extinction couch cuddle time

inspired by incredible artwork by @thecreepybunny 

This is literally just the epilogue from 175 put into fic form with my idiot words thrown in occasionally, pls enjoy 

-----

The silence around them is thick, broken by the cries of the gulls and the crunch of their boots. Jon is quiet and pensive, and Martin wonders what he's Seeing here.

Martin kicks at a piece of litter. It skitters under a couch, sagging and missing chunks along the back. He stops walking.

"You know what? I am sitting down." 

Jon scoffs out a small laugh. "Are you sure? That thing is.. it's not in great shape."

"Neither am I." Martin says, shrugging off his bag. "I have been on my feet for a literally uncountable amount of time."

He lowers himself onto the couch. It makes a dangerous creak. Jon raises an eyebrow.

"How is it?"

Martin fidgets on the uneven, bumpy surface. He meets Jon's slightly smug gaze, and refuses to back down. "Great. It's great. Lovely couch."

Smiling, Jon turns away and drops his own bag on the ground. "Right, well. Rest up, I suppose."

Martin catches his hand and pulls Jon towards him. "It's a two seater."

"Yes it is."

Martin pats the space next to him and tries to ignore the sound of something sloshing.

Jon sighs and fixes him with a look. "Hard pass, thank you."

Sighing, Martin pulls Jon to stand in the space between his knees and wraps his arms around him. One of Jon's hands buries itself in his hair, and the other rests on his shoulder, gently rubbing small circles with a fingertip.

They hold each other, listening to the sounds of a ruined world. Sirens and things that were once gulls call out in the distance. It's quiet in a way none of the other domains have been, and somehow that's worse than the screaming. Nothing, quiet and stagnant, with no one to remember a time when it was different. No one to hope.

Martin glances up at Jon's face. He looks different from this angle, Martin thinks. Or maybe he looks different because he thinks Martin isn't looking.

"What's it like?" He hums against Jon's stomach.

"What?"

"This place," He searches for the word. "It's statement."

Jon brushes a piece of Martin's hair off his forehead. "Not too surprising. It's a domain designed to eke fear out of those afraid of a world destroyed by human hands. It uh," Jon sighs. "It dwells on it."

They fall into silence again. Jon watches the horizon, and Martin watches Jon.

"So it was real then? The Extinction?"

"Of course it was real. At least in the sense that it was a thing people feared." He runs his fingers along Martin's scalp. "Wether it was strong enough in its own right to be considered at a level with Smirke's Fourteen, or wether it was on its way to getting there, I - maybe. This sort of thing is always muddy."

Martin rubs his hands along Jon's hipbone, thoughtfully. "So Peter was lying."

Jon exhales and perches himself on Martin's knee to avoid the couch. "To a degree. But mostly - he was just like anyone else who tried to take the scope of human terror and package it neatly into little theories. All this talk of Emergence and birthing a new power, it's just people being scared."

Carefully, Martin tugs Jon closer, until he's actually sat on his lap. Jon's skirt - Daisy's skirt really, Jon had found it buried in one of the cupboards at the cottage and tried it on - splays about him and he wraps an arm around Martin's neck. Martin knows he should feel this content in an apocalyptic hellscape, but Jon fits against him so well that he can't help it.

"What, so no one had any idea?"

"Martin, I have the whole scope of human knowledge available to me and I'd struggle to give you a simple answer to most of this stuff." He leans his head against Martin's shoulder. "And even if I am omniscient, I'm starting to realise that... doesn't mean objective."

"I guess it's hard not to bring your own baggage into this sort of thing."

"I don't know if it could even exist without the baggage. You want to talk about psychological projection, try viewing the metaphysical world through the lense of the being that is, by its very nature, a reflection of your own obsessions and fears."

Martin huffs into his shoulder. "Yeah alright, I get it." He adjusts his arms, pulling Jon impossibly closer. "But what about the real world? Were they right?"

Jon leans back to look at him. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Right, if none of this had happened, if that world had just carried on? What would've happened? Was all that fear justified?"

"I can't know the future, Martin. Not even a hypothetical one."

"But you Know what was going on, what was happening. Out of everyone, you're the best place," He stutters. "You've got the info to make a pretty damn educated guess."

Jon sighs again. "I don't know what you want me to say, Martin. Yes, it was bad, worse than most people thought, and things were only going to deteriorate. But was the end of humanity actually imminent? Probably not? But we were well on the way, and it would've been the end of an awful lot of things."

He buries his face in Martin's neck and breaths the last words against his skin, warm and tangible and impossibly soft.

"So you don't think it would've been the end of the world?'

Jon's quiet laugh is humourless.

"The end of the world. Now there's a concept."

[fandumbstuff]

The Marvel Cinematic Universe, Ranked Best to Worst.

Why watch a movie when you can experience it? And that’s what the MCU demands you do. These films are less about settling in to watch a movie. It’s about getting together your family, your friends and making an entire event of them. Marvel Studios has forever changed cinema going, and boy am I eager to get back to them. So with that, let me break down the franchise and my take on the best and worst it has to offer.

1. Iron Man 3 Directed by Shane Black

Iron Man 3 still holds up as one of the MCU’s strongest screenplays. It’s their first (and one of their only) real character study of a superhero, and the psychology behind being one. Tony Stark suffers from PTSD and struggles to understand his relationship with Iron Man. He is forced to contend with human issues and find what it is that truly makes him a hero. It’s also a movie chock full of incredible action set pieces- the Air Force One scene still holding up as one of my favourites- and wickedly funny dialogue. It continues to be my most satisfying re-watch out of the MCU.

2. Black Panther Directed by Ryan Coogler

Marvel’s best villain, best score, best production design, and best picture candidate. It’s the movie that forced Hollywood to take them seriously. Ryan Coogler showed the world that he can perform even within a studio system that had largely been criticised for being too overbearing. The world may have always known that Black Panther existed, but Coogler showed us why he matters so much. The story is the MCU’s most inspiring yet. Killmonger forces not just T'Challa, but every audience member to consider his motivations seriously. It shows humanity that heroism doesn’t come from superficial acts, but from overcoming our own flaws and learning hard lessons from our history.

3. Thor: Ragnarok Directed by Taika Waititi

In letting Taika Waititi have free reign over Ragnarok, Marvel is given their most unique film yet. The movie feels very much like Waititi’s own vision, chock full of his signature wit and charm. And its within this vision that we finally see Chris Hemsworth come into his own as Thor. Finally at ease, he’s allowed to be funny, and absurd, and play the emotional scenes without any melodrama. Waititi really makes the character dynamics in this film memorable, introducing us to the Grandmaster and Valkyrie, and fleshing out Banner and Loki. It’s a cast that charms us enough to consider staying with the MCU and seeing where they go.

4. Captain America: The Winter Soldier Directed by Anthony and Joe Russo

Chris Evans finally comes into his own as Captain America, as Winter Soldier gives him a captivating character arc to work through. Steve Rogers is placed in a conflict that makes him question his own motivations. The morality that he stands for is in direct opposition to the authority he serves, leaving him to question what it means to be Captain America. We also see him learn from his relationships with the supporting cast- with a franchise best portrayal of Nick Fury and Black Widow and a particularly strong introduction of Falcon. The Russos create something truly remarkable by taking a character that has been criticized for being too traditional and show him learn and change significantly. But in addition to all this they direct what is easily the MCU’s best pure action movie yet, showcasing the franchise’s best car chase (Fury vs Cops) and its best fight scene (THAT knife scene).

5. Avengers: Endgame Directed by Anthony and Joe Russo

Stunning, momentous and joyous, Endgame is the theatrical experience that Marvel has spent over 10 years honing to perfection. Just one year after Infinity War, the MCU brings together their iconic, colossal cast for their grandest, most ambitious adventure yet. And while Endgame is chock-full of some stunning action sequences and gleeful references, it carries a genuine heart to it. These heroes struggle with PTSD from the events of Infinity War. We see them at their very lowest, and watch their desperation mount and grow to determination. This epic struggle is what has made superheroes so compelling for so many years. By breaking these characters down, the Russos show us just what makes them great. We’ve witnessed writers, directors and certainly the actors take these characters on journeys that have seemed at times thrilling, at time out of touch, but in Endgame, they’re at their very best. The moments of reprieve in the action where we simply sit with them to listen in on their banter are the best. Building to it’s inevitably emotional ending, Endgame winds up being one of the most wholly cathartic experience I have had with a film.

6. Guardians of the Galaxy Directed by James Gunn

At the time of it’s release, Guardians was the franchise’s best-looking movie yet, and it still holds up. The slick space opera designs set to the now iconic soundtrack made the first Guardians an aesthetic marvel. It’s the substance that comes with this that makes the movie one of the MCU’s best. The ragtag group are misfits who find their purpose by banding together, and while the sequel may have drawn this out to nauseating lengths, the first movie made it succinctly effective. It found the right balance of humour and sentiment, endearing us to a cast of characters that seemed too obscure to be popular- and guaran-damn-teeing that Marvel can do whatever the hell it pleases moving forward.

7. Avengers: Infinity War Directed by Anthony and Joe Russo

To handle ten years of storytelling and world building and bring it to such a satisfying crescendo is commendable. The Russo brothers handle each character well- each new introduction is a pleasing moment of familiarity and excitement to the fans that have stuck with this franchise. It’s a perfect match to the comic book format. And ultimately Infinity War is as good as any major comic book event. A chance to see our favourite characters interact with each other with conceivable motivations, and face a threat that is alarmingly critical. Its in this respect that Infinity War outshines its predecessors. For the first time, the Avengers face real emotional consequences if they fail. The Russo’s pull no punches to make this clear and despite a fair amount of signature MCU levity, Infinity War winds up being their darkest film yet.

8. The Avengers Directed by Joss Whedon

There’s no questioning the milestone achievement that The Avengers accomplished. As a superhero ensemble, it never once feels congested or jarring-something that most blockbusters consistently suffer from. Instead the protagonists are given clear goals, and their obstacles make real sense. Their hostility towards each other stems from their innate character flaws that they need to address to face the true antagonist in Loki. It highlights what Marvel does so well- offer us adventures that don’t tie up all their loose ends but rather leave them dangling to set up more ambitious stories.

9. Spiderman: Homecoming Directed by Jon Watts

I’ve long considered Spider-Man an uninteresting superhero, so it is highly commendable that Homecoming manages to change that. We skip the origin story and meet a Peter Parker that is inexperienced and has a lot of growing up to do. He contends with Michael Keaton’s Vulture- a villain that is simultaneously charismatic, intimidating, and relatable. Supported by what is probably the best supporting cast in any MCU film. Martin Starr, Hannibal Burress, Zendaya, Jacob Batalon, Jon Favreau and Marisa Tomei flesh out Spidey’s own universe of Queens- wholly believable and charming.

10. Captain America: Civil War Directed by Anthony and Joe Russo

In all respects, this should have been the second Avengers film. The Russo brothers do what Joss Whedon couldn’t. They show these characters change and clarify their motivations based on the 8 years that we’ve been watching them. They introduce new characters like Spider-Man and Black Panther in seamless fashion. They provide exciting action set pieces and compelling moments of drama. The payoff at the end truly shows us how much of a battering these heroes take- emotionally and physically. We see their vulnerability more clearly than any other MCU film, forcing us to address the question that they can’t keep doing this forever.

11. Captain Marvel Directed by Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck

The biggest issue that this movie suffers from is that it seems very episodic to a larger MCU. Its hard to get around this though, with it’s release date being less than 2 months away from Endgame. It feels like there are some key world building details that had to be gotten across. Had this not been the case, perhaps they could have explored Carol’s character a bit more. She does seem interesting, and Brie Larson does an expectedly great job, but it seems like we’re only getting a taste of a much larger character study. From what we see though, it is refreshing to see a female character who simply goes out and kicks ass without ever being sexualised, even in terms of costume design. The highlight of the film though, is undoubtedly Samuel L. Jackson’s incredible portrayal of a young Nick Fury, through the most magical of magic tricks in VFX.

12. Iron Man Directed by Jon Favreau

While I do feel like the movie has lost some of it’s lustre since it’s release, there’s no denying that Jon Favreau achieved something remarkable with Iron Man. Forever considered one of Marvel’s B-characters, Favreau brings Tony Stark into a modern era and instantly relevant setting. This is obviously due in large part to his gamble of casting the debilitated Robert Downey Jr. in the lead. Downey Jr. pays off in spades, revitalising his career and sadly typecasting himself forever with a roguishly charming performance.

13. Doctor Strange Directed Scott Derrickson

Doctor Strange is proof of the amazing world-building prowess the MCU has. They introduce key elements to the universe that seem incredibly important, without ever overwhelming the story. Benedict Cumberbatch puts on his best American accent yet and capably sells Stephen Strange as one of the MCU’s more level-headed heroes. The rich mythos of Doctor Strange fits immediately into the greater MCU framework while telling it’s own compelling narrative culminating in my favourite climax to any MCU film- “Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.”

14. Spider-Man: Far From Home Directed by Jon Watts

The real standout from this film is Jake Gyllenhaal with his pitch-perfect performance as Quentin Beck/Mysterio. He threads that line of MCU humour extremely well, but also manages to come off as wholly and realistically threatening when he needs to. Far From Home had the tough task of following the monumental Endgame,  but it fulfills its purpose of truly setting the tone for the future. A lot rests on Peter Parker’s shoulders and Far From Home shows him having to deal with it responsibly, maturing and growing to fill a greater role in the MCU. 

15. Ant-Man Directed by Peyton Reed

If you ignore the fact that this movie was almost directed by Edgar Wright and how amazing that could have been, Ant-Man still delivers as a very entertaining movie and one of the franchises strongest origin stories. Scott Lang is instantly the MCU’s most relatable character- not a god, not a spy, just a thief with no powers and no resources (initially). And there is no one who could have played this character better than Paul Rudd. Bringing his signature charm and impeccable comedic timing to the franchise is a breath of fresh air and a brand-new dynamic. 

16. Captain America: The First Avenger Directed by Joe Johnston

Ultimately my biggest problem with Captain America has always been his origin story, so I have some natural issues with this film. It is also bogged down with some cliched romantic drama between Steve and Peggy which takes away from its otherwise engrossing plot. Hugo Weaving proves to be an effective Red Skull, showing us a deeply disturbing quest for power. The movie excels in its WW2 setting, laying down real consequences and motives behind Captain America’s heroism. It takes a few movies for Chris Evans to settle into the role, but this is a strong start.

17. Iron Man 2. Directed by Jon Favreau

Iron Man 2 consistently threads the line of poignant storytelling. Ivan Vanko’s vengeful motives, Tony Stark’s descent into alcoholism and the nature of war profiteering. It’s especially unfortunate then that the movie gets bogged down with a persistent need for levity. More than any other film in MCU, the humour in Iron Man 2 seems particularly cumbersome- taking away from what would surely be strong performances from Mickey Rourke and Sam Rockwell. As a result, we’re left with villains who don’t seem to be a threat at all- mere caricatures for Iron Man to dispatch without ever really pondering their motivations.

18. Ant-Man and the Wasp Directed by Peyton Reed

My initial reaction to this movie was pretty positive, but given time I realise it’s totally forgettable. While it does feature some integral world building to the larger MCU, there’s very little done to explore some of their characters, particularly the Pym/van Dynes. There are still a lot of great aspects, including some clever action set pieces that explore Ant-Man’s powers more. Scott’s relationship with Cassie is expanded on and Paul Rudd and Abby Ryder Fortson do a great job selling this, making it seem truly endearing without ever being corny. Also Randall Park is in it and he might be the greatest actor of his generation.

19. Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2 Directed by James Gunn

More of the same, but not nearly as fresh is what Guardians 2 serves up. It rehashes a lot of its predecessors joke formulas, action montages and even the basic emotional tone. It’s hard for any of this to seem anything other than repetitive and I’m left wanting these characters to go on real adventures rather than wallow in their own angst. Without offering any new developments to these characters and a rather uninteresting plot, the movie is another totally dismissible filler episode in the MCU.

20. Thor Directed by Kenneth Branagh

It’s really baffling that with as big of a name as Kenneth Branagh attached to it, Thor winds up being one of the MCU’s most poorly directed films. Poorly constructed shots framed on a dutch tilt and coloured with a gaudy high contrast palette make this movie a downright eyesore. It’s especially unfortunate because it’s got some great moments of storytelling in it. While the first three quarters of the movie seem tedious, it pays off in the last 30 minutes- exposing a complex family drama that drives most of the film. While Chris Hemsworth took a few films to polish his acting chops, Tom Hiddleston and Anthony Hopkins provide strong performances to really sell their characters and make us care.

21. The Incredible Hulk Directed by Louis Leterrier

This movie has easily become the sore thumb in Marvel’s formula. It seems entirely different from the rest of the movies. This is due in large part I believe to make it similar to the original TV series. None of this is a good thing. The movie has a largely meandering plotline, with no sensible character development. Bruce Banner goes back and forth between being tortured by the Hulk and accepting him. In a world populated by poor villains, Tim Roth’s Abomination might be the worst one. At no point do his motivations make sense or seem clear at all.

22. Avengers: Age of Ultron Directed by Joss Whedon

It seems like Joss Whedon decided to make a sequel to The Avengers without taking into consideration the four other movies that came out after it. Ignoring most of the character development and brushing aside key plot points, Whedon instead tries to explore their team dynamic by sewing seeds of hostility and testing them against a new villain. However, as good as James Spader is, Ultron never feels like a real threat. The real antagonist for the Avengers winds up being themselves, constantly bickering over right and wrong- and while this isn’t necessarily bad, Civil War would do a much better job of this just a year later. This makes Age of Ultron a dispensable entry in the MCU, and Whedon’s extremely poor handling of Natasha and Bruce’s relationship make it an arduous rewatch.

23. Thor: The Dark World Directed by Alan Taylor

The Dark World suffers from some bizarre shifts in tone and horribly forced humour. They reduce Jane Foster and Thor’s relationship to a cliched romantic comedy and then use it to add unnecessary comedy to the family dynamic established in the first Thor. Even the performances seem poor here- as if the actors never truly felt comfortable in their role. They posture and exaggerate to sell a script that offers them very little to work with. With a caricature of an evil villain and a generic McGuffin to chase, The Dark World is everything you could criticize the MCU of, rolled into one movie.

[computerguideworld-blog]

How Game Of Thrones Ends Based On Computer Simulations

New Post has been published on https://computerguideto.com/must-see/how-game-of-thrones-ends-based-on-computer-simulations/

How Game Of Thrones Ends Based On Computer Simulations

We love Game Of Thrones, but it’s not without its flaws. So we ran a 100-percent accurate simulation to see how the story would have played out if the characters didn’t spend half their time sleeping around, torturing each other, and talking about their feelings. The highly advanced technology we used was Nintendo’s Advance Wars: Dual Strike, a 2005 video game about anime characters fighting with tanks.

No gratuitous boobs in this, but we’re sure somebody on the internet has fixed that by now.

We created a map, let the game’s artificial intelligence run amok, and watched as years of rambling storytelling were ruthlessly condensed into 38 minutes of all-out warfare. We also got drunk, watched porn, and grew beards, for maximum authenticity.

So here’s Westeros, which most of you know better than your own country:

And here’s our perfect 1:1 recreation:

*Play for full effect*

The Starks and their allies are red, the White Walkers are blue, and the Lannister-Tyrell alliance is green. Dorne and the Freys’ Twins start off neutral, while Stannis is cut because being overlooked is his lot in life. The Iron Islands are represented on the side, but the Greyjoys aren’t, because the only thing they’ve achieved in five seasons is one very uncomfortable fingering scene, and that can’t be recreated on a Nintendo console until Bayonetta 3 is released.

Across the ocean is Essos, where Daenerys (yellow) has spent five years yelling about slaves while acting entirely with her impressive eyebrows. Here’s her part of the world:

Mother of dragons, first of her name, breaker of chains, protector of pixels.

Now we need to create the Advanced Wars equivalent of 20,000 bearded men who want to kill each other. Game Of Thrones has more political factions than most real countries: Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons, Tyrells, Martells, the Night’s Watch, white walkers, wildlings, the Targaryens, the dozens of interchangeable one-dimensional villains Daenerys has butchered, rogue actors like Littlefinger, that kid who’s way too old to be breastfeeding, and on and on and on. But because most of them are ultimately irrelevant — just like in real life — so we’re chopping this story down to the essentials. First up are the Starks, whose 18,000 men were mostly peasants with pointy objects. So assuming each unit represents 2,000 men, here’s what Robb’s forces look like:

“Nine’s more than enough to invite to a wedding, right?”

The thing that looks like a duck with wheels represents his mounted units, while the soldiers carrying poster rolls / RPG launchers are his knights. And just to his north is a horde of white walkers, which we’ll assume have overrun the wildlings. As for Team Lannister, they start with 20,000 well-trained and equipped soldiers, as well as a small navy …

… while Daenerys has 8,000 Unsullied, 2,000 mercenaries, other miscellaneous soldiers, and three dragons represented by stealth bombers. See, our high-end simulation technology is flawless.

Right down to the dragons’ baffling decision to not simply eat every fleshy human and rule the planet their damn selves.

Snow falls as the war begins, and the very first thing the Starks do is march 2,000 men north to Castle Black and kill 1,000 white walkers.

“You know murder, Jon Snow.”

Fuck. Yes. The walkers were teased from the very first scene of the very first episode, only for 47 more hours to pass before Jon killed a single one. But there are no stories about incest and long shots of people walking endlessly through the wilderness here. The Starks get down to business, taking the walker threat seriously and acknowledging that having the realm’s only line of defense against a terrifying supernatural horde be a collection of poorly-trained rapists isn’t a great idea. While Jon immediately starts the war we’ve been waiting for since episode one, Robb marches the rest of his troops toward the Twins.

It’s amazing the progress you can make in a war when you don’t wait for all your soldiers to die first.

In the show, the Lannisters dealt with their enemies mostly via political machinations and cunning plots. But our Lannister AI said to hell with all that. They also march on the Twins, as well as sending Jaime and Bronn with 4,000 men to take Dorne by force …

… and two assassins equipped with wildfire (represented by remote bombs) straight at the heart of Dany’s forces.

Where, in keeping with the law of the land, they stop and wait while other people do shit.

Dany, meanwhile, sends one team to take Qarth while the rest of her troops march on Meereen, condensing four seasons of wandering and whining into one bold move.

Fire cannot kill a dragon, but boredom can.

So to recap, after a single day of combat, Jon is in charge of the Night’s Watch and leading the battle against the walkers (which, on the show, happened in season five), Robb is at the Twins (season two), Dany’s taking Qarth (season two) and Meereen (seasons three through five), while the Lannisters and Tyrells are actively engaging both of them with actual military tactics (season hasn’t-happened-yet). But while our simulation is cutting the show’s fat, it retains its flair for sudden and dramatic deaths. Sorry, Kit Harington groupies, but the light goes out of Jon’s beautiful doe eyes on Day Two.

“For the article.”

He exploded, and then his corpse vanished, so there’s no convenient resurrection or Jesus metaphors for him. But he takes thousands of walkers with him, and it fulfills something Jon predicted in the show — that the Night’s Watch could survive one night of attacks, but not two. Things go better for the Starks south of the Wall, as Robb, free from the sexy distractions of Charlie Chaplin’s granddaughter, begins his conquest of the Twins.

Amazing what you can get done when you keep your Little Tramp all zipped up.

No sooner do the Starks lay claim than the Lannisters massacre 2,000 of them in a single gruesome day. In no dimension is holing up with Walder Frey a good move.

“The Lannisters send their fuck yous.”

Meanwhile, their wildfire-armed assassins bring Dany’s dragons to the brink of death, and they wipe out three-quarters of her Unsullied in the process — a tactic that is shockingly more effective than one glass of bad wine and Jorah Mormont’s fickle boner.

The Unsullied’s nonexistent boners were simply no match.

Dany responds by merging her dragons into one three-headed terror with some horrible arcane magic and then, ugh, retreating to Meereen and Qarth to rebuild / sit around and grimace. So just like in the show, we get one awesome dragon moment, followed by a whole lot of nothing.

With pixels, it was too hard to tell if she shit herself this time.

On the third day of conflict, the Lannisters and the Starks start their epic battle …

… while the white walkers seize Castle Black. We’re three episodes into the Nintendo DS version of Game Of Thrones, and while there are no tits (a feature we are supplementing by browsing “Busty Asian Beauties” while the simulation runs), everything else is way more awesome.

Aside from Joffrey still running amok instead of choking on poison and vomit.

On the following day, Daenerys flies her hydra-dragon over Dorne, an important world event the Starks and Lannisters completely fail to take note of because they’re too busy massacring each other.

Had the real Daenerys thought of this, George R. R. Martin could’ve moved on to not finishing a whole other series years ago.

Jaime and Bronn’s troops capture Dorne by standing on it, which is slightly more realistic than the fights they got into there in the show:

“First take, nailed it. Cut!”

The Starks are forced to give up ground at the Twins to hold the Wall …

… while Dany’s King Ghidorah kills 200 of Jaime and Bronn’s men.

You make Jaime fight without Brienne constantly saving his ass, and look what happens.

Despite all the awesome action happening elsewhere — a three-headed dragon attacks a city held by two fan favorites — the camera decides to focus on Meereen, where absolutely nothing occurs. Huh, it’s weird that season five’s storylines play out exactly the same in both versions. It’s a great tactic, though — Dany announces her intimidating presence to Westeros with an attack on the one stronghold that resisted her distant ancestors. That will get her more support than five years of sitting around and grumbling ever could.

Over the next few days, the Starks hold Castle Black but lose the Twins to the superior numbers and resources of the Lannisters, Dany expands her holdings in the East, and Jaime and Bronn flee Dany’s dragon, which moves on to harassing Highgarden. The Starks are confined to the North, but there’s a glimmer of hope — the Lannisters land 4,000 men at the Wall, in an apparent sign that they’re willing to put aside their differences and battle the Walker horde …

… Kidding! The Lannisters immediately attack the Starks, right in front of the horde of ice monsters that want to kill them all and rule their corpses. Which is absolutely what a bitter, vengeful, and drunk Cersei would do. For her, it’s better to see the world destroyed than to see her enemies succeed. And all their attack does is benefit the walkers, as there are now even fewer good men standing between them and civilization.

If you can’t trust an incestuous, murdering wino, who can you trust?

With that incredibly destructive act, everyone in the Seven Kingdoms must be cheering for Daenerys’ dragon to slay the short-sighted Lannisters and save Westeros. So it’s a bit anti-climactic when the exhausted dragon runs out of energy, crashes, and dies. Maybe don’t take your storytelling cues from this particular event, George.

The dragon is exactly how Martin feels after writing more than ten words a day.

Still, Daenerys soldiers on, taking most of Essos with good old-fashioned soldiers alone.

No Unsullied victory teabaggings, cause, you know …

The Starks and the Watch successfully repel the Lannisters in the North, while in the South, Moat Cailin continues to hold out remarkably well (just like in the show). But their numbers are depleted, which means …

… the white walkers are south of the wall for the first time in 8,000 years, and we’re still in season one. The Lannisters are able to occupy Winterfell, the seat of their most hated enemy, but it’s a Pyrrhic victory. The walkers soon push them out and seize the North, and with the new resources available to them, they start fielding tanks. We shall assume these tanks are undead. Thanks a lot, Cersei.

Shame! Shame! Shame!

Arya may have escaped and Sansa is probably being sexually assaulted somewhere, but otherwise, the Starks are dead. The last hurrah by the North is a screaming kamikaze attack on the walkers led by Ramsay Bolton — an oddly heroic yet sufficiently crazy way for the show’s most hated character to make his exit. The Lannisters and walkers begin fighting, while Dany builds boats, lands her vanguard, and finds the southern half of Westeros almost completely undefended.

Everyone was distracted while mourning the tragic death of the guy who castrated dudes and raped girls.

She immediately marches on King’s Landing and defeats the remainder of Jaime and Bronn’s weary soldiers.

Sisters and prostitutes everywhere are inconsolable.

Jaime dies in the city he saved, at the hands of the daughter of the madman he saved it from. It’s a dramatically satisfying conclusion to his character, and it begins the great Targaryen-Lannister-Frost-Monster War. The Lannisters are able to rally their troops and defend King’s Landing, but at too much of a cost. The white walkers march to the Twins and start slaughtering them. It’s unclear if the dying soldiers are able to grasp the narrative irony and thematic significance of being massacred there.

“The Braaaaains Of Castamere.”

Dany lands additional troops and makes another attempt at King’s Landing, and the Lannisters are unable to fight off her naval assault — as they did Stannis’ on the show — because they blew their wildfire on their assassination attempt. On Day 22 of the conflict, Daenerys captures King’s Landing:

With the Mother of Ghidorah on the Iron Throne, the Lannister and Tyrell armies disband and their cities declare their loyalty to the new Queen. At this point, the walkers have overrun the North, but Daenerys has the heartland of Westeros and the combined might of Essos behind her. It’s numbers versus resources, with the only question being how efficiently those resources will be used. So it’s the fight the show has been hinting at for years, reached in under half an hour of simulation time.

The “Previously On Game Of Thrones” intro will be nothing but an ad for the one-disc complete series DVD.

To avoid being overrun, Dany immediately retreats to build her forces and otherwise sit around doing nothing, because while you can take the queen out of the shitty plotline, you can’t take the shitty plotline out of the queen. But Daenerys’ decision also highlights her ruthless side: She lets King’s Landing fall to the white walkers, the entire capital city slaughtered and zombified merely so she can rally her troops.

We’re starting to think she might hold a grudge.

But it works. The Queen gets her army, lines it up along the banks of the Trident — where the Targaryen dynasty fell in the first place after Daenerys’ older brother died in battle — and now she’s either going to restore her family’s name or doom the land to a reign of endless darkness.

Or spend three more seasons sitting around debating which is better.

It’s the final epic struggle, with every character who’s survived to this point putting aside their differences to battle a supernatural threat to their very species. Turns out they don’t need a dragon at their backs, because the true dragon … is teamwork.

The battle takes almost as long as the rest of the war combined, but Daenerys does it. They retake King’s Landing. Fictional humanity is saved!

“It’s Queen’s Landing now. Any objections? No, didn’t think so.”

From there, she drives the white walkers back beyond the Wall, then marches into the far North and topples their frozen stronghold. The Seven Kingdoms are reunited, and their greatest threat is destroyed.

Her traditional warrior garb of a red ball cap, power suit, and half-undershirt struck mortal fear into her enemies.

Oh, and Bran got eaten by zombies at the start of all this, because no one cares about him.

The end!

So there you have it. The dragons are a paper tiger, and Dany will become Queen not through their power, but by giving Westeros what it’s lacked for so long: a ruler willing to unite people against true evil. Jon will give his life fighting the white walkers. Jaime will die trying to redeem himself in the eyes of the people he loves. The Lannisters, in their arrogance, will fail to learn from the mistakes of the Starks. History repeats itself, as the final battle occurs on the same ground where this conflict began years ago. And, most importantly, a decade-old Nintendo game can tell an epic story more efficiently than a big-budget HBO series.

For more 100 percent not wrong insights into ‘Game Of Thrones,’ check out 6 Insane (but Convincing) ‘Game of Thrones’ Fan Theories and 19 Game of Thrones Plot Twists That Would BreakTthe Internet.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out The Definitive Answer To Game Of Thrones’ Biggest Mystery , and other videos you won’t see on the site!

Also, follow us on Facebook, and let’s get as drunk as a Baratheon or something.

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/

[janekfan]

What about Jon, crying frustrated tears back either pre Canon or in S1 and Tim comforting him and helping out until the breakdown has passed, contrasted with Jon, crying frustrated tears either from being so overwhelmed or from something Tim did in seasons 2/3????

https://archiveofourown.org/works/27581069

Finally! Sorry it took so long!! <3

It was cold. Of course it was, it had to be to protect the documents packed in boxes floor to ceiling all around and everywhere he looked there were more and there was no way he could do this!

Inhale, exhale. Calm down.

He’d have to remember to bring a spare jumper so he could work because as it was now his fingers were too numb to work properly and when he tucked them under his arms it only made him feel worse. Made him feel small and alone. Reminded him of a lonely childhood.

Stop it.

But Jon didn’t know where to begin. He could pretend. He could keep his assistants busy with real work, that wasn’t a problem but what was he to do? What did an Archivist do, really? Archive? Organize? How? When everything was a giant, muddled mess filed, a generous term, in no real order or catalogue he’d been able to understand. It was all just.

Overwhelming.

A splash of wet warmth collided with his wrist and embarrassed, Jon scrubbed hastily at the tears streaming down his cheeks. This was, he was stupid. Stupid. He should be able to handle this. At the end of the day, wasn’t it just shuffling papers around? Putting them in some semblance of order that only had to make sense to him? It had certainly worked for Gertrude. The sorrow and frustration came anyway, falling from his eyes and heating his skin and he was so caught up in his own discomfort that by the time he processed someone entering his office, it was too late to hide.

He tried anyway.

“Oh, Tim. Yes. Wh’what can I do for you?” It was a useless misdirection; Tim was sharp eyed and protective and honestly, it was a relief to see him because if Jon was going to continue crying (and it didn’t seem like he would be stopping anytime soon) there was no one better.

“Jon? What’s wrong? What’s happened?” And the tears which he’d managed to slow, came back full force and Jon tucked his chin to his chest and shook. “Ah, hey now, can’t be as bad as all that.” Gentle, Tim tugged him close, holding him around his shoulders and allowing him to bury his hot face in his stomach. “You’re alright. Whatever it is, we’ll help, okay, Boss?” A palm swept up and down the seam of his spine. “We’re a team! We can do anything if we’re together.” Jon pulled in a hitched and shuddery breath, nodding resolutely. Tim allowed him a few more quiet moments before ushering him out of his office where Martin and Sasha were certainly not waiting for them. Martin approached first, compassion shining clear in his expression, and took up his hands.

“You're freezing! Here, come with me. I’ll make you some tea and get you warmed up straight away.” Martin would hear nothing of his protests, pulling him gently away to the breakroom, warm fingers curled around his own. Just this once, Jon would let it happen, the reassuring glow of being surrounded by friends soothing the remnants of panic that had overwhelmed him so thoroughly before Tim found him. They were speaking easily around him about nothing important and Jon let himself drift in the current of their familiar voices.

It was cold down here. And dark, though Jon could See just fine, like he couldn’t hear them but Knew they were searching and feared the worst, that he’d gone hunting in the streets for first-hand accounts of terror. He welcomed the chill seeping its way beneath his skin, numbing his fingers and toes. It meant some part of him was at least close to human.

He reveled in the weird, sharp hunger that gnawed on tender nerves, appreciated the gravity of it and let himself sink into the deep, syrupy ache. He's on the brink. Can feel it in the heavy throbbing in his chest, behind his heart, taking up every empty space and making it difficult to breathe. The weight of his mistakes he supposed, a breadcrumb path he could follow all the way back, beginning with accepting the Head Archivist position instead of walking away. Then again, he’d never known when to stop and that didn’t seem like it was going to change anytime soon; that need for answers, to understand, to connect every dot, to soothe the sting of losing all his friends in favor of embracing a monster.

But Lord he missed them and they were right there. They just weren’t there for him anymore and he had only himself to blame.

Jon doesn’t ask for comfort, he’d be the first to admit he didn’t deserve any and is...content he thinks is the word, to wait until Tim and Martin and Melanie and Daisy and Basira decide he’s suffered enough to prove his worth and let him back in. It was cold down here. It was colder alone and the temptation to give in was so strong if only because he’d be warm again and he’s so, so tired of being lonely.

But he could get something nearly as good. Recognition that something happened to him, that he was still here, still Jon even if he was unwanted, there was enough of him left to hate. He knew how to be that. He'd always been that. Static, now always a low, persistent hum in the back of his mind, shoved forward suddenly with the Knowledge that Tim had decided to look in the tunnels.

Tim wanted to hurt him and he wanted to be hurt. To let it assuage the guilt even for a moment.

Jon already Knows he's spoiling for a fight.

Of course he was the one who would find Jon. Arse is mere meters down the tunnel and leaning with his back against the wall, arms hanging loose over knobby knees and looking for all the world like someone had kicked his puppy.

And what right did he have when he was the cause of all this fear and paranoia and death.

“Tim.” Bland recognition and it sent a shiver racing up his spine because it wasn’t like he had to turn and check, not with his spooky powers. No. He just knew everything now, didn’t he? How convenient. Tim could barely reconcile the figure in front of him with the friend who used to work with him in Research. This Jon was a slip of a man. An intruder he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. This Jon was lies and secrets and silvery scars mapping out the tragedy he’d led them all into willingly in his search for more and more and more. Damn the consequences, never content to let things be. No. This Jon was disorder and disarray, wild curls and no tie and the buttons leading up to his rust stained collar undone. There was dirt caked under the nails of his unbandaged hand and cobweb mingling with the premature grey in his hair and the nervous, twitching energy, the inability to stay still, conspicuously absent.

This Jon was a stranger who didn’t care who he harmed.

This Jon threw them all away like they were less than rubbish and the only way Tim could stomach interacting with him was behind a mask of contempt and hostility.

“Thought you’d be out looking for victims.” Involuntarily his lips curled up in a sneer.

“Sorry to disappoint.” Meticulously enunciated and condescending, strange eyes fixed to the wall in front of him. It angered him that Jon wouldn’t look at him. He could at least have the decency to look him in the face when he lied to him.

“Why are you down here anyway? Hiding? Plotting?” Jon snarled in response, low and dark, brows knitted in scorn.

“And what business is that of yours?” Bare more than a keen hiss and all Tim heard was an invitation to the party because it was so much easier on his conscience to paint Jon as deserving rather than admit he might be as much a victim here as the rest of them. Such a convenient target to aim at, to focus the knife edged anger and rage and agony at and Jon is so good at pushing every button. It was like he wanted this. Wanted to fight.

“Someone has to keep track of you and your secrets! Your lies!” Tim closed his eyes and tugged on his hair. “They’re killing us and you don’t even care!”

“You don’t know that.” Well now he had his attention and the flash of unnatural viridian had to be a trick, a reflection.

“I don’t need supernatural powers to know you!” He saw the hit land in the way Jon’s expression slipped and Tim felt good, the rush of adrenaline flooding his veins was heady and strong. “You’re running. From everything. And it all started when you began running from us.”

“I’m not.” At this point, Tim wasn’t sure Jon was capable of standing because surely he wouldn’t take this sitting in the dust and he didn’t care. This was the most he’d felt since this all began. He didn’t want to give it up. Not yet. Not before he’d made Jon understand.

“You're not even trying!” He spat, watching his shaking hands curl into fists, watching shadows soak into the bandages. “You just let things happen to you--”

“Oh yes, Tim!” Hurling his name like a curse, Jon stared up at him, narrow chest heaving fast. “I just let the Circus have me. I just let Daisy beat me unconscious and threaten to put me down.” For a moment, Tim thought he saw tears glittering on his face. “What do you know about how hard I'm trying?” The whole of him was shaking now, trembling as he sucked down noisy breaths. “Always sulking about this place! Maybe if you’d been paying better attention you’d have noticed Sasha was gone!” He collapsed against the wall, lazy grin carving up his face. Like he’d won the game. Landed the finished blow. “You may claim to know me. But clearly, you never knew her.” Lunging with a hoarse cry, Tim snatched him up by his collar, so close to the healing slash crusted with old blood bisecting his throat.

He only smiled wider. Manic. Frantic. Fingers grasping automatically at his wrists and Tim could feel sticky warmth marking his arm.

"Go on then! I know you want to.” Jon was whispering, words tripping over themselves in his haste to spit them out. “You can't stand me. Just like Daisy can't stand me. You want this. I Know yo--"

An echoing crack followed after the back of Tim’s hand collided with Jon’s mouth.

Replaced soon after by blessed quiet broken only by Jon’s harsh and strangled panting.

Tim dropped him back to the floor. Shaken. Disgusted. He didn’t know with whom. Maybe both of them.

"You never shut up."

Jon tongued the cut on his lip while Tim watched a bead of ruby so dark it was almost black roll down his chin and drip down onto the white fabric of his rumpled dress shirt where it would dry and age and match the rest that was there before whatever this was. He didn’t bother wiping it away.

“Feel better?”

“You know I don’t.”

Shaking out his hand, Tim collapsed beside him in silence, staring resolutely ahead, lips pressed thin until Jon’s head tipped slowly forward, chin coming to rest on his collarbone and smudging more red. Even in his peripheral vision Tim recognized it for what it was and knew if he looked properly he’d see tears steadily falling from his damned eyes despite how hushed he remained. He peeked anyway, witnessed him cave in and bring arms up to hug himself in a desperate bid to hold his pieces together. But he doesn't look at Tim. Doesn't reach for him like he used to.

"I am trying." He whispered, voice immeasurably limned with exhaustion.

Like a switch had been flipped, he was Jon again. Tired and drawn. Overwhelmed and lost and isolated. Tipped so far over the edge he goaded Tim into striking him because it was the best he could expect. Because at least he had Tim's full attention for a moment. And Tim walked right into it, led easily like a moth to a flame.

What a pair they made here at what might be the end of all things.

Troubled, Tim pulled him roughly into his side, hardening his heart against the whimper of pain and the stiffening of his entire body. Jon was skin and bone. Had dropped at least two stone he couldn't afford to lose. Tim had watched it happen and done nothing.

There were no apologies exchanged and when Tim dragged him stumbling into the light of the Archives, no one commented on the split lip or the new bruise or the blood dried and flaking that traced his jaw.

Jon was just a stranger.

No one cared if he'd been harmed.