Archive of Our Own ^beta

There, at the end of everything, Jon met him.

His biggest regret, his most painful short coming, his deepest cut. The face he couldn't forget, the name he couldn't bear to remember. His old friend, his new enemy, his raw aching. Tim. The most tender of his scars.

"Hi, Jon," he said, his hands tucked inside his pockets; his eyes welcoming.

And Jon crumbled.

"H-how," he spluttered, "where- what-"

"Shhh," said Tim. "It's okay. I know it's all confusing and scary. But everything is okay. Do you trust me?"

The words hurt, a sharp and unexpected thing. They ached, cutting into him and twisting something inside of him. There was a time where the answer wouldn't have come easily. And also time where it would've come very very easily, but would have left a sour taste in the air afterwards. Right now, though, it came quick and felt hot on his tongue, burning its way out of him, like he can't answer fast enough, like he somehow can send his words back in time to a time where they'd matter.

"Yes," he said, "of course, of course I trust you Tim."

"Good," said Tim. "Then trust me when I say you don't need to fear." Jon nodded once, mouth pursed. "C'mon, then. Follow me."

"Where?" Tim started heading towards the horizon. Jon hurried up after him.

"To meet the others!" the smile he flashed him was bright.

"Oh," said Jon. A bit of silence, and then- "what others?"

He avoided Tim's eyes. They both knew what he was really asking. Tim hesitated for a second, before smiling this wide smile again.

"Why, Sasha, of course!" he called. "And Gertrude. And Daisy. And Gerry, and Helen – the original one – and even your grandmother. Hell, even your parents." He stopped in his tracks, staring ahead. Jon almost bumped into him. "Everyone, Jon. All of them."

The meaning dawned on him. "What about Elias?" he asked, the name's dripping from his lips like poison.

"Yes, him too," smiled Tim. "Every single one. Do you see yet?"

Jon did see. He thought he's seeing, at least. It was all so much to grasp all at once. The others. All the ones that died, here again, close enough to grab. He tried to let the thought fill him up from the inside, make his heart swell, but found himself choking. There was no room for happiness, or relief; he was filled to the brim with fear.

Fear. Again. Even now, at the end of everything, he still wasn't free from it. What power did it even feed? What was he afraid of?

"Jon? You good there?"

He shook himself and looked at his friend. "Yes, sorry, just got lost in my head a little. It's… a lot."

Tim chuckled. "Oh, believe me, I know," he said. "But you'll get used to it. Now come. Don't you wanna see them?"

Jon wanted to. He wanted it so much, more than anything, so much that is scared him. He turned around towards Tim. He took one step and-

And promptly froze. Something was wrong.

His hand. His hand was empty. It wasn't usually empty when he walked, not lately. But what did he usually hold…?

"Tim," he slowly raised his head, "where are we?"

The smile fluttered. For a second, just a second, a familiar feeling washed over Jon. But before he managed to identify it, it was gone, and the smile was back. Just a trick of the light.

"What do you mean?" asked Tim.

"We… you are dead. What are you doing here? Where am I?"

Something sad flashed in Tim's eyes. Well, no, not quite sad actually, but rather a sort of mockery of sadness. Like a cheap fake. Like animated sadness, like how it would look if it was done by something that has never been sad before, like how things look when you're dreaming…

Then it was gone, and Jon mourned it the second it left, because in its place was another emotion, one that looked very real indeed, one that Jon was familiar with its sight to his bone. Anger. Jon could recognize the shape of Tim's anger with his eyes closed. Something inside him fell, but it felt right. It's how it was meant to go. Oh well, it was nice while it lasted.

"You could never do what you were supposed to," growled Tim, "could you? Couldn't keep your goddamn questions for yourself. Why couldn't you trust me?" he got closer and closer to Jon now, almost touching. "Why couldn't you close your fucking eyes?!"

"I'm sorry!" called Jon. "Tim, Tim, please, listen-"

"It's too late now. You want to know where we are? So here! Watch!"

He did something with his hand, and all of a sudden everything around Jon shifted. He ducked his head down, trying to keep the nausea at bay, but Tim held his chin and lifted it, forcing him to look.

There was white all around, miles and miles ahead, for as far as the eye can see.

"Am I dead?" he asked, voice coming out in a gasp.

"You can say that if you want," answered Tim, nonchalant again. "It's not what I would have called it."

"Then what would you have called it then?" snapped Jon.

He just shrugged his shoulders. There was still anger stored in them, Jon noticed.

"What can you tell me?" he asked.

"That all the people you mourned are here," said. "Even the living ones."

Jon gaped. It took a bit of searching to find his voice. "What do you mean?" he asked.

 "See for yourself," said Tim. And then from the white emerged a figure.

It was a woman. An achingly familiar stranger. Jon thought he knew who she must be.

He drank her sight in, eyes big. It was so weird, he didn't remember her. He thought he ought to, but he didn't.

When she finally got close enough, he opened his mouth. "Mom?"

There was a quiet moment, the soft kind of silence, and then both Tim and the woman doubled over with laughter, holding their stomachs.

"Oh my god," wheezed Tim, unable to breathe, "oh my fucking god-"

The woman was howling and leaning on him so hard she almost fell. She tried to compose herself, wiping away tears from her eyes. "Oh, oh Jon," she gasped between pained breathes. "Oh I can't believe it, this can't be real-"

"This is the best thing that's ever happened," laughed Tim. "Oh, I'm so glad I wasn't the only one who witnessed that, Sasha-"

Jon's head snapped at Tim's direction at that. "Sa… Sasha?" he whispered.

Her eyes grew soft at that. She held out her hand for him. "Heya, Jon. Long time no see. How are you?"

He blinked at her. "I'm- I mean, I'm…" then his face crumbled and he collapsed into her, hugging her like a kid hugging their bear in the dark.

She hugged him back, smiling into his hair. "Hey, it's okay, it's okay, Jon, we're all fine."

And there it was, here was the relief he tried to summon earlier, washing him and drowning him in waves. "I'm so sorry," he cried. "Sasha I'm so sorry, I couldn't save you, I didn't even know, I couldn't remember your face, I'm-"

"It's okay, it's okay, Jon, I forgive you, it wasn't your fault."

"I forgive you too," chimed in Tim. "A lot of things have happened since I last saw you. I moved on. You suffered enough, Jon, you've atoned. I think you could probably use a friend, now."

He could do nothing but nod.

They lead him further into the vast whiteness with them, gracefully avoiding dignifying his questions with answers. It was fine for now. Jon could wait. He had eternity.

He thinks.

Tim and Sasha were easy to talk to. The incident from earlier didn't repeat itself. Jon didn't know what exactly flared up Tim's anger like that, but whatever it was, it seemed to be gone.

They walked slowly, and they talked, and it was like old times, like before the archives. If Jon closed his eyes, he could pretend they're just on a walk on their launch break. Maybe it's almost the weekend, maybe it's almost summer, maybe it's a good day where everything goes easy and even the mishaps don't upset him very much-

"Jon?" asked Sasha. He opened his eyes with a startle. "We're almost there. Is there something more you want to ask us before we're done?"

He blinked at her choice of words. "Uhh, no, I don't think so… thanks?"

It was obviously not the answer she wanted from him. Her eyes did a funny thing. Then she smiled sweetly and put her hand around his shoulder. "C'mon, Jon," she said. "I know you. When have you ever not had a question? Are you really trying to tell me there is nothing more you want to know, now when all the answers are here within your grasp?"

Well, when she put it like that… Jon cocked his head to the side and took a second to think. There was something he wanted to ask, he knew that. He almost did ask it earlier, right before Tim got all weird. But he couldn't remember it now. What was it?

"Am I dead?" he asked instead.

Sasha froze for a moment. Then she smiled. "Wrong question," she said. Her voice made a chill run through him, but he didn't know why.

"What do you mean?" he pushed. "Why can't you answer it?"

Her smile grew sharp. "Because you won't like the answer," she whispered, and suddenly Jon wanted nothing more than to run.

He turned to Tim, on his other side. "Am I dead?" he demanded. To his horror, Tim began to laugh.

"Am I dead?" he turned to Sasha again. She was laughing now too, but it wasn't like before; there was nothing happy about this laughter.

"AM I DEAD?" he shouted. He shouted it again and again, into their laughing face. His ears began to ring. There was no answer.

"I'm dreaming," he realized with a startle. "None of this is real, is it?"

"Oh Jon," said Tim, grinning, and something heavy sunk in Jon, something heavier than he knew he even possessed between his ribs but he must have, because now he could feel this thing falling out and out of him and out of him and oh, he realized, I really believed this time things were good. "Never said we were."

The words didn't even finish leaving his mouth before everything around Jon changed.

All of a sudden, like someone pulled a rug from beneath the world, all the white was sucked out, leaving nothing but darkness and a deep silence.

Jon closed his eyes shut, took a shaky breath, and counted to ten. Then he opened his eyes.

Still dark. A whimper of fear sneaked into his heart, and he forced himself to take another deep breath. Get it together, Sims, get it under control. It's just darkness. You lived through worse. You've died through worse. Or… haven't you?

He didn't know. He didn't know. When was the last time he didn't know something? Where was the Eye-?

Oh. Right. The Eye.

Feeling like a fool, Jon breathed deep again and summoned his ocean of knowledge, waiting for the static to drown him.

Nothing happened.

"Really?" he breathed out in frustration. "Of course, I have to hear about the shark that lives in the bathtub of the cashier from Tesco, but the one time I actually really need it… nothing. Typical."

There was a certain comfort in bitching. It distracted him, but even more than this – bitching belonged to him. It was something that was all him. Not a lot of things like that left for him, especially since the ch-

The… the… uh… his mind grew blank. What was he about to think? It felt important. It felt connected. Nothing in this place felt right. Nothing felt like it was supposed to. Was he dead?

"Sasha!" he yelled, cupping his hands around his lips. "Tim!"

His voice echoed. He couldn't see anything. Couldn't hear anything. He felt his heart rising in his chest, painfully growing faster in its beat.

"Sasha! Tim! Please!"

He felt himself begin to panic. He wished-

"Don't be so scared, Boss," came an answer, from somewhere close to his right.

"Tim," he breathed in relief.

"Yeah, Jon," came a voice from his left, making him jump. "Fear is our thing. After all, we've died afraid."

"Speak for yourself," said Tim. "I died angry."

"What about me?" asked Jon. "How did I die?"

He could see them now, sort of. They stood close to each other, almost touching, their backs to him. Tim sighed. "Honestly, Jon, for a demigod ruling over a broken world with the powers of literally knowing everything, you're really dunce. It's been toying with you for however long now; have you still not figured it out?"

"Figured- figured what out?"

"Jon," said Sasha, and she wasn't smiling anymore, "think about it for a second. Do you even remember dying?"

Oh.

It was like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place. He sucked in a breath, not able to think, his head hurt, his eyes hurt, everything hurt and-

When he opened his eyes again, he was at the Panopticon.

His breath became shallower and shallower as he looked around himself. He didn't remember how he got there, he didn't remember what happened, what happened? What did he do? What has been done to him? What… where… who…

"Took you long enough," came a snarl from beside him, and he whipped his head around to look at the general direction of the speaker.

It was… Tim. Like before. But different.

"Oh, am I not like the Tim from your dream?" he said, mock surprise in his voice, shaking with the effort of barely restraining itself. "How come?"

It was easy, really. This Tim, unlike the previous, wholly and truly hated him.

"I do hate you," said Tim. "I really do. Everything else you did I might have forgiven – traumatizing all those victims, literally ending the fucking world, but this? Jon, you killed them. You killed everyone. What the hell is wrong with you?"

And oh, the memory came flying back, now. And it had hurt, it had hurt so much. The apocalypse, and the panopticon, and Jonah Magnus, and the Eye's pupil and… yes, he remembered now. Taking his rightful place. What he had to do.

"How are you here?" he asked, and this time the static arose, and Tim obliged.

"I'm not," he said. "You're alone. You're all alone, now, Boss."

"So what, you're just in my head?"

"Kind of. More like in your eye."

Jon sighed. "It's the Eye, then? But why? And how?"

"You know everything now," said Tim, face devoid of emotions. "Including what I would have said to you if I ever were to see you right now. So this is what I have to say to you, you goddamn prick – I wish you'd died right alongside me in that blast. Would be doing the world a favor."

"He's right," said a voice he recognized now, and Jon tried to whip around only to find out that he can't. He looked down and realized his legs were bound to their place, suspended midair. He couldn't move.

"I swear to god, Jon, if I had to gamble on one of us snapping and killing Elias, I would probably choose myself. Never you. But here we are, I'm standing before a man I trusted with my life just three years ago and… I can't recognize you." She lifted one hand to cup his face, tracing his scars slowly. He closed his eyes. "What happened to you?"

"Sasha…" he stammered. "I'm so sorry. I already said it to the other one, but-"

"The other one wasn't real," she cut him. "Really, Jon, how many times do you need before you'll be able to recognize a fake when you see it?" He winced, full body, as much as he could. Her face soften. "The Eye was toying with you. None of this was real. Well, I'm not real either, I mean. I'm just what could have been. You're still alone."

He could have wept.

"Sasha… Tim," he pleaded, "I had to. I had to."

"No," said a third voice, unmistakable. "You really didn't."

"Daisy," whispered.

"Jon, I was willing to let it kill me," she said. She was just like he remembered her. Thin, pale, her long hair tangled and messy, her eyes the only thing darker than the bags beneath them. Nothing from the wolf left in her here. "I struggled and resisted every day, just to not feed it, to not make it stronger."

"But that's what I'm doing too, Daisy!" he called. "Please, you've got to believe me." He took a shaky breath, suddenly bombarded by memories not too different from this moment, of standing in the woods with her and trying to convince her of the same thing as now: that he's not a murderer, that he never intended to hurt anyone. Oh how far we've come, huh Daisy?

"Yeah," she said. "Except I moved along and onward; you stayed exactly the same. Still paralyzed by your fear, huh Jon? Still unable to do the hard thing."

"Daisy…" he murmured, voice heartbroken. "I am doing the right thing. You weren't here, you don't understand-"

"So what about me, then?" came a voice from behind him. He knew that voice very well. He wasn't able to turn around and face it. "I was there with you, the whole time Jon. Literally. I saved your life over and over again. If it weren't for me Daisy would've already killed you by now. Hell, if it weren't for you, I would have been anywhere else right now. Anywhere else. The only reason I ever got into this mess was because of you, and now there's none of this mess left to clean, 'cause everyone's dead."

He took a sharp intake. "Basira," he said. "Oh my god, are you…?"

"Dead?" came the reply from his side, yet another voice. "Yeah. Sorry, Jon. We all are. You're the last person on earth. Just like you wanted, ey?" her voice drippled with bitterness.

"I'm so sorry, Melanie," he said, "I never wanted this, I never wanted you to-"

"Should have thought about it earlier then!" she shouted. "Before making the active choice of killing everyone. Or did you think that we don't count just 'cause you don't want us to?"

Jon covered his ears with his hands. "I didn't have a choice!" he called. "Basira, Melanie, Daisy… please, I didn't have a choice, you've got to understand!"

"You did!" yelled Tim. "But you decided that you care more about your morals, about your guilt, than the actual real people suffering all over the world!"

"That's not what this is! That's not what it was! You don't understand, you weren't there, you didn't see it!" his voice broke. His eyes stung, and stung, but he couldn't cry. Couldn't do anything that will make his vision blurry. He was a pupil now, after all.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, again. How many times will he have to whisper it before somebody believes him?

"I believe you, Jon," said Georgie, appearing on his left. "I believe you're sorry. And I also believe you did the only thing you thought you can do. And I also believe you don't regret it. So why crying?" she lifted one hand and wiped away invisible tears that weren't there. "You won, Jonathan Sims. You ended the world."

Something in him shattered, something precious that he knew, Knew, he could never get back.

"Please leave me alone," he said. "Why are you here?"

"Because you want us here," said a voice, the final voice, the one Jon had been waiting for without even realizing it. "Because you miss us."

"Martin," said Jon. He stared at him, feeling like a flower that sees the sun for the first time in a long time, like a breath he's been holding inside of him had finally been released. Martin. He threw his hands in front of him, trying to grab him but failing, always failing. "Martin, please come closer, I did miss you, I do, I do, I miss you, Martin, please."

And Martin raised his eyes and met Jon's gaze, and Jon felt his blood freeze, the realization that Martin isn't coming closer settling in.

"Please, Martin, I need you," he begged, he begged like the Eye had wanted him to beg and he didn't care, he didn't care about anything, he didn't care that this Martin wasn't real, that his Martin was dead, he didn't care, he could deal with this all if only this Martin would just come a little bit closer, god fucking dammit.

"How could you do this, Jon?" asked this Martin, his eyes devastated. He looked like Jon reached inside his chest and plunked his heart right out of it. "You promised."

Another sharp intake. "I'm sorry, Martin. I had to."

"No," he shook his head. "No, you chose to."

"Alright," said Jon. "Yeah, you know what, maybe I did. But I stand behind it, okay? I stand behind it."

"I'm glad," said Martin, voice hollow and echo-ey in a familiar way. "Because you will have to deal with this choice, for the rest of your life, Jon. Which is also the rest of time."

A silence fell on them, heavy enough to kill, if the only one alive out of them wasn't already an immortal.

"Martin?" Jon asked hesitantly. "Did it hurt? To die?"

"Yes," answered immediately half of the room.

"No," said Martin, looking him right in the eyes. "It didn't hurt, because I knew there was nothing worth living for left behind."

And, okay, wow, that did sting. A lot. More that Jon thought he's still capable of. At least Martin looked apologetic as soon as his words left his mouth.

"What's now?" asked Jon the room, his cast of Christmas carol, his band of ghosts.

"We can't go," said Georgie. "Not when you still miss us."

"But if I miss you so much I conjure versions of you," said Jon, "why are you mean to me? Why do you hate me?"

"Because you destroyed humanity," said Sasha.

"Because you're a monster," said Basira.

"Because we're inside your head, we're you," said Daisy. "And you hate yourself."

"Because it's easier," said Martin. "Because you think it will hurt less if you'll manage to convince yourself you didn't lose anything. Because you're sick of losing and missing and being alone. Because you still feed them, Jon. You're the only person alive to feed them. They feast on you while we speak."

"How do I stop it?" asked Jon.

"You can die," said Georgie. There were no words more earnest than them. "You can die and leave them to starve on their own – or you can lift your chin up and have courage, and watch them while they wither with your own eyes."

Jon wept. He clung to her words and he shook and he whimpered. He was a god. He was someone who went to an impossible war against forces he could barely comprehend and won. He was the strongest being on the face of the earth. He was the loneliest man in the world.

"I don't know how," he cried. "I don't know how to stop being afraid, I-I never succeeded before, not even once, so how am I to-"

"We will help," said Basira.

Jon stared at her. "Why?" he let out. "I thought you hated me."

"We do. Because you do. Because we would have if we were here."

"But we aren't here," continued Melanie, approaching them. "Not really. And you can change your mind."

"And if you want someone to help you, anyone, well…" said Tim, "then we are the closest thing you have to someone else. We're all there is, really. So it's us or nothing."

"And turns out you're not really in favor of nothing quite yet," said Sasha.

Jon hesitated. "Martin?" he asked. All the eyes turned to his former lover.

"What is it, Jon?" answered, and he sounded so much like the real thing that Jon wanted to scream. And it hurt, to know that if Martin would've survived that's how he would've looked at him right now, but at the end of the day it didn't matter. Martin was dead. Everyone was dead. Jon was the only one, the last one standing. And he was going to go out with a bang.

"Will you help me?" he asked, and hoped it conveys all the other things he couldn't manage to say – all the "I'm sorry"s and the "thank you"s and the "I wish you were here"s and the "I wish none of it would have happen"s and the "I miss you"s and the "I love you"s and the "I love you"s and the "I love you"s.

"Yes," said Martin, like he was merely breathing.

Jon took a shaky breath and clung to his lost loved ones. "How are you going to help?" he asked.

"Remember how I lost my fear?" said Georgie. Jon nodded. "I touched death. So if you want to lose your fear as well, all you need is to touch it too."

"I already touched the End," said Jon.

"Not like this," insisted. "Here," she held out her arm. "Take my hand."

Jon looked at her. "The last time I shook hands with someone, I got nasty third degrees."

Daisy let out a laugh. "Don't feed the desolation, Jon, come on, you're better than this."

"I don't know what to feed," he called, his eyes wide with fear.

Georgie stretched her hand towards him, gaze steady and unyielding. "Feed us."

Jon sighed. He looked between them all, studied their faces. Then he seemed to have made a decision. "Here we go," he murmured. And he took her hand.

*

The Hunt was the first to disappear. It shrunk in on itself, starving and desperate. Jon thought of Daisy and felt a sprout of satisfaction blooming inside his hollow chest. Afterwards went the Vast and the Buried, still hand in hand all the way to the finish line. And then the Slaughter, the Corruption, the Flesh, the Spiral. The Stranger flickered out not long after, followed by the Desolation and the Dark, and he was sure glad to see these three go. Then came the Lonely, but Jon wasn't afraid of being alone anymore, nor was he afraid of dying. He gathered a twisted satisfaction from denying the End its final wish of being the last one to go. And then there were two. Jon took his time with them. He wanted to savor it. He wanted to leave them hanging for a moment, seeing their approaching end but unable to flee. He wanted to see them squirm.

And so the Eye and the Web ended.

And then there was only him. And an empty world at his feet.

It took a lot of time to realize he can't die.

It took even longer to become desperate enough to come to the Crack. And about five times that to even consider it.

But eventually, after weeks and months and days and years, he couldn't deny anymore that this was his only option.

He was no longer Jon when he arrived at Somewhere Else. He wasn't even the Archivist. He was barely a person at all. Most of all, he was simply a being of light, the courage that his dead friends gave him the only thing that lasted through all of this time, that didn't fade.

*

And the legends say that if you walk alone at night, if the street's really empty and your heart's really heavy and you want an answer – then maybe he'll appear. He lets people ask him one question, they say, and he always has an answer. And afterwards, they say, the world doesn't seem so scary anymore.